


the first oath

by ambrorussa



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Asexual Character, Disregards Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, Eldar/Avari divide, Elf/Vala Relationship(s), F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Maiar & Valar, Mpreg, Nonbinary Character, Timeskips, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, didn't think elven family trees could be more complicated? Do I Have News For You, is ancalagon maedhros' and sauron's horror-baby? quite possibly, there are some happy bits i swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 106,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24892624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambrorussa/pseuds/ambrorussa
Summary: There was already an oath that controlled elves before the one Fëanor made in FA 1495. One that drove the Eldar from Cuiviénen and gave them hope for a new life; one that enabled the Valar to exert greater control than ever before; one that took all semblance of choice and control from fourteen elves in return for the greater good."Then Manwë said to the Valar: 'This is the counsel of Ilúvatar in my heart: that we should take up again the mastery of Arda, at whatsoever cost, and deliver the Quendi from the shadow of Melkor.' Then Tulkas was glad; but Aulë was grieved, foreboding the hurts of the world that must come of that strife." (J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion)Fifteen elves swear to bear children for the Valar in exchange for the protection of their race, and thus the Maiar come into being. This story follows the ramifications of that choice from the Years of the Trees through the Fifth Age of Middle-Earth.
Relationships: Amroth/Nimrodel (Tolkien), Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Celegorm | Turcafinwë/Oromë, Círdan | Nowë/Ulmo, Daeron/Maglor | Makalaurë, Elbereth Gilthoniel | Varda Elentári/Enel, Elu Thingol | Elwë Singollo/Melian, Erestor/Glorfindel (Tolkien), Estë/Evranin, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Finwë/Aulë, Finwë/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Ingwë Ingweron/Manwë Súlimo, Irmo | Lórien/Nimrodel, Lenwë/Nimrodel, Maedhros | Maitimo/Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Morwë, Morwë/Enel, Nessa/Enelyë, Nimrodel/Evranin, Námo | Mandos/Eöl Moriquendi, Oromë/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Tulkas/Rog, Vairë the Weaver/Rúmil of Tirion, Vána/Daeron, Yavanna Kementári/Lenwë | Dan
Comments: 127
Kudos: 92





	1. the first oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We begin by listening in on an argument between Fëanor, Finwë, and Indis, and then the story skips ahead: a scene from Maedhros' captivity; another from a Fëanorian campsite during the War of Wrath; a revelation during the White Council in the Second Age; and finally a mysterious little conversation between Gandalf and Thorin's Company in the Third Age.
> 
> Featured characters: Finwë, Fëanor, Indis, Maedhros, Sauron, Maglor, Círdan, Gandalf, Bilbo.  
> Secondary characters: Fingolfin, Evranîn, Elrond, Galadriel, Erestor, Glorfindel, Saruman, Oín.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For those curious, a chapter & art guide can be found at https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/638343487123783680/the-first-oath-masterpost  
> I originally planned this to only be a one-shot, but I couldn't stop thinking about the concept and it grew far beyond that. All of the chapters are connected in some way, but because this story involves so many characters and is hardly chronological, you may want to know which chapters are which (and which have content warnings for various things) so I hope that the guide is helpful. Enjoy!**
> 
> chapter cw: implied rape, mention of suicide
> 
> \- we’re playing fast and loose with canon here ☺
> 
> \- please please please let me know if this interests you/provokes thought etc, and if you want to write follow ups, expand on this AU, or draw anything, all are extremely welcome

**_"Then Manwë said to the Valar: 'This is the counsel of Ilúvatar in my heart: that we should take up again the mastery of Arda, at whatsoever cost, and deliver the Quendi from the shadow of Melkor.’ Then Tulkas was glad; but Aulë was grieved, foreboding the hurts of the world that must come of that strife." (The Silmarillion, Chapter Three: "Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor")_ **

****

**_\----_ **

**Year 1470 of the Years of the Trees**

_**twenty Valian years before Fëanor is exiled to Formenos** _

Fëanáro stared back at him, fire in his eyes. "This is wrong, Father. Perhaps I can understand why you originally agreed to it, but I cannot fathom why you have allowed it to continue! You may be free of this, but Lord Ingwë? From what you have told me, he is a hostage!" He began pacing. "I had always wondered why he so rarely attends official functions that the other kings attend without fail, but this answers everything!"

  
Finwë sighed, and looked out the window. He had been worried about Fëanáro's reaction, and so far everything that he had imagined was coming to pass. Indis stared at them from the chaise in the corner, looking torn.

  
"Curufinwë, this is not something that we can change. We were told from the beginning that we had the choice, and we made it. They swore to us that nothing would be physically harmful, and we did not know enough then to contest emotional harm. Once we came to Valinor and fully understood the bargain, it had become a question of the good of the few over the needs of the many. What was worth our freedom? Is Ingwë's ability to leave his lord worth the safety of his thousands of subjects? No. Of course not." His eyes focused on a bird perched on a garden trellis preening its wings. Fëanáro wasn't going to abandon this in a hurry. Steam was almost coming out of his beautiful pointed ears. _Míriel’s ears_ , he thought.

  
"I won't be dissuaded from arguing a perfectly fair point! Lady Indis-" Fëanáro turned to his stepmother, not for the first time in the conversation. _Would wonders never cease_ , Finwë chuckled internally.

  
"Surely you agree. _You_ were not subject to this rule; _you_ did not have to sit upon the laps of the Valar and provide them with further reaches of power. You know this is wrong."

  
Indis had looked to be on the verge of stressed tears for a while now, and it showed in her voice. "Of course. It is as your father says; it seemed a reasonable compromise at first, especially as each leader was allowed to stay with their spouse if they were already married. For the rest of us, it was very fair indeed! No work on our part save the Journey; and if we reached the Blessed Land, all would be well forever. It seemed a lovely deal! We had been besieged by all manner of foul beasts for years by then."

  
She glared at Finwë. "But now! No, of course it does not sit well with me. It has not for many years. Finwë has been spared for a long while; Olwë is only asked for on occasion; but Ingwë, my own countryman? He is worn through. Ingalaurë his son speaks sadly to me of him, spent beyond his nature. And I have discussed this with my lord Finwë many times. It is only new to you, and anyone younger, as all who made the Journey swore between ourselves not to reveal the circumstances that brought us here."

  
Finwë’s eyes flashed, almost in mirror of his son’s, and he nodded seriously. "We wanted you to grow up _free_ , Curufinwë. Free of fear, of cold, and of danger."

  
"Well, I _didn't_! And to hear now that what freedom I did have came at the price of yours? To know that the very Maiar who taught me smithcraft and helped to raise me in so many respects were my _siblings_? “

  
"Half-siblings!" Indis cut in petulantly from the other side of the room. She had turned away from them and into the back of her chaise, legs pulled up, and had wrapped her arms around her middle. Finwë marveled at this display of childishness from his normally staid wife, the lovely nís from whom he drew strength daily.

  
Fëanáro whipped around. “Half-siblings, fine!” He turned back to Finwë fiercely. “To what point! You were planted like a garden at their whimsy and then ignored when it suited them!”

  
Finwë cringed at the image. “It was not all so unpleasant as you make it sound-“

  
“For you, perhaps not! Did you ever have a council about it? Ask others of their treatment and feelings? Aulë only has so many Maiar; he only needs a few to man the forges. But Manwë he has nearly five score, last I knew, and can you even speak for those left behind? Lord Nówë was alive when you left. Morwë; Enel; Lenwë – you cannot speak only for yourself in this matter. What have you to say for them?”

  
Finwë leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes. This was an old argument, and from more than just his son. “We agreed long ago that it does nothing to worry for those on the Other Side.” He rubbed his temple with two fingers and looked back to see if the bird was still on the trellis. If only he could be so carefree.

  
Indis huffed from the chaise. “If Fëanáro continues stirring up our people, then perhaps it is time to worry about them again!” She had confided her fears again to Finwë only a few years ago, after Fëanáro had held the first council debating the rule of the Valar. “What of Melkor? Of Ulmo? Of Yavanna, or Vána? We have no way of knowing what they have since demanded of their bearers. He is right.”

  
Fëanáro stilled, looking at her. After a moment, he turned back to Finwë and put his hands on the large metal desk. Finwë’s eyes tracked their path, and then lingered on the gadrooning with which his son had decorated the edges. This was not a promising direction for the conversation.

  
Fëanáro began, “Father. Please do not brush this off as part of my resentment concerning the Valar caging us in Valinor. Though it contributes, now! This is something else entirely. My previous frustrations have laid in issues that are still changing. This, though, has been unjust for many centuries, if what you say is true. Elves should not be sold in bargains like farm animals! This proves _everything_ that I have been discussing in council. We are not equal; they do not see us as anything but children, and less wise at that. You have dismissed me before, and so I understand why you did not want to tell me this. But you are being called upon once again to... to _serve,_ and this only stokes the fire! Once this gets out, our people will stop at nothing to free you. _I_ will stop at nothing.” His hands were in fists.

  
Finwë’s neck cracked as he leaned his head back in dismay, staring at the ceiling that his youngest son had painstakingly painted. He trusted that his eldest would follow through in his threat. Fëanáro never knew when to stop. If the story of the bargain ever reached the rest of the populace…

  
Had he not raised his son knowing the perils of kingship, of the sacrifices that must be made? His frustration began to simmer. He raised his head and sat forward, looking up at Fëanáro.

  
“This is not _negotiable._ We made an oath, and not knowing the fine print does not belie all the good that it has done for our people! Of the hundreds of Eldar who made the journey, and the thousands born here in these past centuries, only _one_ has died under Valarin protection. Do you know how many died, per year, on the Other Side? Dozens _. Hundreds._ It was a place of growth and creation, yes, but also of pain and suffering and uncertainty.” He stood up, pushing his chair back and walking around the desk to face his son, who had never quite gained the same height as he.

  
“Curufinwë, I would have and will continue to give up everything for my children and my people. For _you_. For Indis," he declared, gesturing towards her. "For all of your children, and for your cousins and their children. If ensuring the continued protection of the Ñoldor in Valinor – maybe even those on the Other Side; we cannot know – requires me to lay back and think of Eru for a year while Aulë _fucks me,_ then I will! And Ingwë would say the same, I know, because if he thought _any_ differently then he would be _here in Tirion!”_ He let out a long breath and turned away, running his hands through his braids. Fëanáro was making faces behind him, unused to such vulgar language.  
  
  
And then the prince shook his head and crossed his arms, making the gold armbands he wore reflect the light. “Father…I do not understand.” He gestured hopelessly. “I cannot approve. This…this _transaction_ is not about something that you simply endure. From what you have described- it is a Creation, an act of giving!” He made a face again. “I have seven children; you cannot possibly sit there and tell me that you do not have to give a…a _piece_ of yourself away when you create a child.” Fëanáro’s face was flushed. It made Finwë think of Morifinwë for a brief second.

  
Fëanáro looked to Indis and back again. “Why is it that nothing that either of us say in disapproval will make you rethink this? Even at such a tense political time.”

  
Finwë examined the window again, aggrieved. “However much I agree with you on your political stance, I cannot and will not ignore a direct summons from a Vala while their gaze is situated on you so carefully. Whatever you may do, I do not want doors closed to you afterwards because of my own behavior. I could not bear it.” He looked back at his soon, sadness in his face. “What could I do without you?”

  
Fëanáro frowned and looked to Indis, unsure of how she would take this show of affection. Finding her still with her face pressed to the upholstery, he turned back to his father. “Yet you want me to promise not to reveal this to anyone else - despite the fact that you will be gone from Tirion for a considerable length of time. What am I supposed to tell people? Perhaps I should just absent myself entirely from the palace?” He flung out a hand in emphasis and then cried out as it caught on the edge of a door that had not been open a few seconds before. Nolofinwë appeared in the doorway, face worried.

  
“What in Aman is going on in here? None of you have stepped out for hours!” He stepped in and closed the door behind him, looking first at his mother and then to the two néri. “Curufinwë? Father?”

  
Finwë threw up his hands in a rare show of exasperation and sat back down hard at his desk. Fëanáro stayed quiet, shifting awkwardly as he avoided his brother’s gaze.

  
“Your brother came upon a missive from the Valar and got in a strop about something we've been dealing with for a long time, dear,” came a mumble from the chaise. “You need not be here for this.”

  
Nolofinwë looked annoyed at the patronizing tone. He looked at Fëanáro again, one eyebrow raised. His parents might obfuscate, but his brother would not. “What was it.”

  
Fëanáro continued looking uncomfortable. “A letter from Aulë requiring the king to present himself in two months’ time at the Gates, as his presence is necessary and sworn upon in the creation of a new Maia for the halls, and he is to stay there until the birth, at which time he may return home.” He sounded like he was reciting the letter verbatim.

  
Nolofinwë was not impressed. “In two months? For how long? Why is he needed for the creation of a Maia?” He put his hands on his hips and stared at his father across the desk. “No wonder my brother is mad! You cannot leave in this environment; the people will revolt!”

  
Finwë glared at his firstborn. “I am _required,"_ he ground out,"because all Maiar are joint creations between a Vala and one of the Wakers, as was sworn many, many years ago across the sea.” He winced. “And in my particular experience is generally a process that takes up to a year.”

  
Nolofinwë choked. “ _Creations!_ You do not say that like it is a jewel that must be set. Tell me what you mean, truly! Curufinwë my brother would not be so set on revealing information if it did not portray the Valar in a bad light. Tell me!” Fëanáro reached out a hand as if to put it on his shoulder, but pulled back before he made contact. Nolofinwë continued staring at his father, hands at his sides in fists.

  
Finwë gritted his teeth and let it spill out. Somehow, revealing it to Nolofinwë was worse than telling his firstborn. “As elven marriage produces children through sexual intercourse and soul-bonding, so too do we interact with the Valar. Most of us who swore the oath are male, so there is no pregnancy as the Eldar are familiar with it, but a sort of a…” He gestured in front of him, hands cupped around an invisible ball near his chest. “…soul-gestation that eventually bears fruit. It requires near-constant connection, and is extremely tiring. As Curufinwë surmised in our earlier discussion, each act of creation takes a piece of us with it.”

  
He shook his head, and rested his hands back on the desk, examining the lines on his palms. “I have not had to do it so many times, and none since Arafinwë was born. We previously disguised these periods by sending you to other family during the time, and Curufinwë was busy enough with his own family that he did not notice the absences. But now you are all here in Tirion, and notice every little thing!” He looked over at his wife. “I had truly hoped nothing would change, but perhaps I am trying to stem a tidal wave.”

Indis raised her head, looking frustrated, but did not say anything. Nolofinwë looked gobsmacked. Fëanáro could not resist adding, “They made this deal while still in Arda so that the Valar would protect us. And while our father is rarely called upon, apparently Ingwë is forever cloistered because of it; and I do not even care to imagine what horrors Melkor is visiting upon _his_ chosen elf.”

  
“It was Morwë,” Indis contributed brokenly. “She liked adventure. At least, at first - I can’t imagine it continued that way after we comprehended that the Orcs were his work. We didn't even realize that Melkor wasn't supposed to be part of the agreement until it was too late and she was already sworn. I stood there and gave her away myself; you cannot fathom the guilt I feel.”

  
Nolofinwë looked horrified. “How did you not know?! Hadn’t he been killing elves from the settlement for years?”

  
His mother shook her head. “He passed it off as the work of beasts and shadows and came to us in a beautiful form. We simply assumed he was another Vala holding to the agreement, since they had hardly come all at once or given us a list of names. In their warnings about the dark Ainu they fought, they never mentioned the name Melkor.”

  
Nolofinwë looked conflicted. “I know not what to think of all of this. It doesn’t paint the Valar in a good light.” He looked uncertainly at his brother. “This…this might be the tipping point that you were looking for.”

  
Fëanáro laughed, feeling slightly crazed. “Do not blame me for this! This mess is far and away more than I could ever have dreamed up. Perhaps it is a nightmare!” He shook his head and looked at Indis. “I understand why you felt it had to be kept quiet. But the younger generations will not sit on this. We cannot.” She nodded.

  
Finwë was irked. “You’re hardly part of a younger generation, Curufinwë; you have a grandchild, and haven’t lacked in the centuries to gain others!”

  
Fëanáro glared at him. “That is hardly the point!” Nolofinwë rolled his eyes and shook his head before walking over to his mother and offering an arm graciously, sensing that the argument had come to a close. She sighed and took it, unfolding out of the chaise that was well on its way to having a permanent imprint of her in the fetal position.

  
Indis pulled the door open with slightly too much force and walked out with her son, calling back, “I don’t want to hear anything else on the matter for the rest of the night, and if you need something, it _must_ be accompanied by grapes and cheese. I haven't the mental wherewithal for anything more.” Nolofinwë reached back to shut the door gently before he followed, arms still connected.

  
Fëanáro watched them leave in consternated silence before dropping down on the chair next to Finwë’s desk, his tunic fluttering. “Father, I have to ask. Was Mother… Did she swear this oath? You listed fourteen oath-takers earlier, and Morwë was one of them; that leaves one remaining elf whom you did not name.”

  
Finwë looked at him, anguished. He didn’t want to talk about this! “She did, Curufinwë. Her death was the first warning we had here in Valinor that our oaths might come to harm us in the end.”

  
His son frowned. “But you said that the Valar swore that no physical harm would come to any who chose to participate.”

  
Finwë nodded. “Indeed, no outright harm came to her during each Maiar conception or birth. Instead, she…she gave too much of herself to the lord Oromë, and when it came time for us to have a child ourselves…” He shook his head and put his head in his hands. “I have never regretted anything more.”

  
Fëanáro thought for a moment, and then started. “Oromë?!”

  
His father nodded miserably. “I’ve always wondered if he began chasing your son because of the resemblance. He takes after Míriel so much, you know. He’s so full of life and loves freedom more than anything. Turcafinwë gets lost in the woods and considers it great fun; of course Lord Oromë would find him.”

  
Fëanaro looked distraught, and Finwë hurriedly sought to console him despite his own worry. “You needn’t worry about the same thing happening, Curufinwë; unless he swears an oath, he cannot be held to the same circumstances that we are. And I think if nothing bad has come from that relationship yet, than nothing will.”

  
“But they…!" Fëanáro looked at him frantically, gesturing as if he did not quite have the words to finish. "Father, you must know that their relationship has been sexual since his early Hunts. And you are not worried?” He cast his eyes around, as if the fine decorations and delicate moldings had the answers. “How would a Vala know what an Elda can take before being hurt? I’ve- I’ve worried about this before, but I never wanted to tell Tyelkormo that he could not do something when I had no good reason to forbid it. But now! Oh!” He buried his head in his arms on the desk as if crumbling under anxiety and fear. 

  
Finwë stared at his distressed child, normally so strong and put-together, and wondered how it was possible to fix this.

 _  
It might not be_ , he thought. _Today's revelations may change everything._

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Year 1498 of the Years of the Trees**

**_one Valarin year after Maedhros is captured by Morgoth_ **

Maitimo tried not to cringe as the Maia leaned in, but it was so, so hard. Heat followed as Sauron’s face came up to his, breath flowing across his mouth like a cruel sort of kiss. “Did you know, my dear, that in the ways the Eldar count it, I am considered your uncle?”  
  


Maitimo blinked thrice, not understanding. Finding his voice was difficult, and the sound broke halfway through. “What?”  
  


Sauron leaned back, eyes ghosting over the blood and cuts. “Half of what I am, half of my very core, came from your grandfather Finwë. Such a lovely tradition! I thought Fëanáro had told you all. Is that not what spurred the Ñoldor to leave the nest of Valinor?”  
  


_Oh,_ Maitimo realized, and his eyes widened in sudden understanding and creeping, black fear. _He will do this thing to me, too.  
  
_

Sauron smiled, a warm thing full of knives. “Why breed orcs, when we can have Valaraukar and great wyrms full of fangs and fire? Look to the future, Maitimo _._ You will be part of something far beyond anything your siblings have done. I have ideas upon ideas for creations that may even surpass the might of Fëanáro.”  
  


He leaned in, and touched his forehead to Maitimo’s in an obscene imitation of familial love. “You are _precious_ , Maitimo.” His twisted metal crown bit into the gash by Maitimo’s brow and sent new blood dripping into his eye. “’Well-formed,’ and for such a purpose! We could not keep your father and his bright soul, but yours will certainly do.”  
  


Maitimo lashed out and snapped his teeth shut on the Maia’s nose, only for Sauron to explode in flame against him and slam him against his chains and the wall. Blood was dripping from both of them now, black and red, coating teeth, a smile, and rage. But Maitimo’s strength had waned, the adrenaline fading as fear returned. He sagged against the wall, chains holding him up, as an ember-hot hand trailed up his side.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Year 548 of the First Age**

**_three years after the beginning of the War of Wrath_ **

Maglor sighed, setting his soup bowl down on the ground, and reached around the fire to tug on his brother’s pant leg. “I can hardly stop you from glaring a hole into the back of his head, but can you at least tell me what has you up in arms about Eönwë? He’s been naught but helpful so far.”

  
Maedhros’ jaw worked for a minute before he turned away and looked down at his soup bowl. The campfire flickered, sending a play of shadows and light across his scars as Maglor watched. In the background, soldiers and camp followers walked between tents, setting armor and necessities to rights before the battle come morn. He finally looked up at Maglor, and the interplay of light over his eyes made the lack of Treelight flickering there more obvious than usual.  
  


“It’s nothing that will prove dangerous. Just…a realization that was long overdue.“  
  


Maglor frowned. “Do you mean his Creation?”  
  


Maedhros flinched and slopped some soup onto his tunic. “Shit!” Maglor readied a kerchief, but then tucked it back in his pocket as he saw the fine wool repel the liquid. Maedhros swiped at it with his stump and looked back into the fire. “I hate that word,” he bit out. “He’s one of Ingwë’s. It hardly makes me feel good.”  
  


Maglor sighed. “He is hardly a prisoner in the same way that you were, Maedhros. It was – is! - a bad situation, but it was voluntary from the start. That’s what grandfather said, at least. I’d like to trust him on that.” He looked over at the fire across the way, where a dark-skinned man with long golden hair was nodding in agreement next to the Maia in question. “You could probably go ask the Ingwion about it, if you’re that worried. When it all came out, Indis told Curufin that he and Eönwë were raised together.”  
  


“Only because Ingwë was required to stay with Manwë!” Maedhros whispered furiously. “I…”  
  


Maglor waited. Only Evranîn was at their campfire with them, and she had been totally deaf since a battle in the previous Age. Nobody was around to listen to whatever new horror or weakness his brother was going to reveal.  
  


Maedhros finally sagged back. “I can’t talk about it.”  
  


_You could have talked about it to Fingon_ , Maglor thought ungraciously.

  
“Fine. Just don’t let it alienate the strongest Maia willing to help us on this side of the ocean. We can’t fight Morgoth and Manwë at once!” He signed alongside the last sentence so that Evranîn could have a laugh at the utter absurdity and avoid the dark mood that had taken his brother.  
  


_Five gold that Manwe won’t actually punish him when we’re done, though,_ she signed in return.  
  


Maglor rolled his eyes and flicked his fingers. _I wasn’t born yesterday!_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Year 2503 of the Third Age  
  
_forty-three years after the end of the Watchful Peace; six years before Celebrían is taken captive by orcs_  
**

Galadriel glanced across the table to Curunír, who was impassionedly speaking of what he considered to be lacking Elven defenses. Mithrandir, sitting to her left, had such glazed eyes that she suspected he had been smoking before the meeting, and Radagast to his left was sound asleep. Elrond had been frowning at them for a while, possibly because whatever they had smoked hadn’t been shared. Círdan was standing at the balcony behind Saruman, close to a shadowed alcove, and she was fairly sure that Glorfindel and Erestor on either side of the Maia were using ósanwe liberally and not paying the slightest attention to him. It had been a rather boring Council, hardly suited to the dark times she had foreseen approaching.  
  


She let her eyes wander around the table again and watched with interest as Elrond’s eyes flashed in response to Curunír's words.

  
The half-elf stiffened. “Refrain, if you will, from insulting those who raised me in such a way! Serious other flaws notwithstanding; in their defense of the free world they were staunch, and held what was good safe from the Enemy for centuries without compromise.”  
  


Curunír grimaced. “I cannot say I ever approved of this relation you claim, Lord Elrond. Maedhros had plenty of strategic flaws alongside his rather severe moral ones!”  
  


What a farce. _You do realize,_ Galadriel thought to herself, _you are more related to my cousins than Elrond is!  
  
_

Círdan was paying fresh attention to the discussion now that the tone had changed, and saw Elrond’s frustration. “This is ancient history, Lord Curunír. Both sets of brothers did the best they could with the remnants of the situation, and Lord Elrond has been a strong, just leader. Perhaps we might avoid casting aspersions on those who have seen indescribable horrors, surmounted the insurmountable, and are now gone, besides.”  
  


Curunír tilted his head back as if to acknowledge the Waker’s words. “Perhaps.”

  
Elrond held back from glaring at him by sheer force of will. Glorfindel, roused from his private conversion with Erestor, pushed his chair back and gestured widely. “I’m positively famished, and fairly sure that it’s time for lunch. If we would like to recess?” Erestor nodded and closed his book of minutes, laying his quill aside and capping the ink bottle.

Galadriel left her chair eagerly, aiming to find her husband in the levels below. From the corner of her eye, she observed Elrond and Mithrandir rouse Radagast with some difficulty. Curunír followed at a more sedate pace, clearly resenting the quick end to what he had considered an important session.  
  


Círdan watched them leave. Once all was quiet, he walked into the shadowed alcove whose entrance he had been blocking. The elf there looked up from his book, the darkness under his eyes enhanced in the bad light.  
  


“Indescribable horrors?” Maglor asked in a low voice.  
  


Círdan nodded, watching the Ñoldo. Maglor usually listened in on the Council meetings and gave his thoughts to Elrond and Galadriel afterward, but the current meeting hadn’t discussed anything of importance, and the mention of Maedhros had shifted Círdan’s thoughts toward different topics. He thought that perhaps it was time to bring his musings to the one remaining brother.  
  
Maglor frowned, and ran a hand over the red leather binding in his lap. “I don’t believe you have that kind of sympathy for me, my lord.”  
  


Círdan shook his head, and began playing with his beard idly. “Indeed, I do not. ‘Tis your unfortunate brother whom I sympathize with." He paused, unsure of how specific to be. "I was given a choice. He was not.”  
  


Maglor’s eyes widened. “What...” His hand stilled. “What are you implying?”  
  


The older ef began re-braiding his beard, needing something complex with which to occupy his fingers while his mind dwelt on such dark topics. “There are very few things which can remove the Light of the Trees from elven eyes, Prince Maglor. Torture alone does not do it, or the tales would say as such of Gwindor. I think that being twisted into an Orc does, but your brother avoided that fate.” The Ñoldo paled, unsure of what was being said between the lines.

  
Círdan frowned sadly, and looked to the open window. “I had the chance to talk to the Lords Ingalaurë and Eönwë during the War of Wrath. To ask about Ingwë," he explained. "I would have asked about Olwë my brother and Finwë my friend, but they were not yet re-embodied, if they will ever be. And what I was told…”

  
Maglor watched him without moving. Half of him wanted desperately to know, to have evidence of what his brother had endured and could not tell him, that time by the campfire. The other half was already crying.

  
Círdan continued. “They told me that while the Trees were alive, the change was unnoticeable, since there was always new Light. But after the Darkening, the Light in Ingwë’s eyes dimmed, as it did in no one else’s." He frowned. "That it was gone long before they left for the War. With every child, I was told, it would dim further, and he would tire.”  
  


Maglor shuddered, not wanting to contemplate what this meant for his brother. Something in his mind seized on the words the old Eglan had used. “Why do you say ‘child’, when my grandfather called it Creation?”  
  


Círdan looked him in the eye. “Those who remained here were not blind to what we had given ourselves to. We were unable to distance ourselves from the reality of it as, I think, the Wakers in Valinor did." _Creation_. _How romanticized_ , he thought. "For your grandfather, it was a situation in which he was inconvenienced for one year every few decades or centuries, and could ignore at all other times because he had won safety and his world was flourishing.” He shook his head, looking pensive. “But for us, bound to the oath and yet living in a world of danger – we _wanted_ our children, because we thought that perhaps they would aid us. Protect us in ways that we were unable to.”  
  


“Did they?”  
  


The old elf nodded. “In some ways, yes. Finwë and Olwë may have refused to tell others of our bargain in Valinor, but those who remained here were well aware. Especially as Lenwë’s first child Melian resorted to heavy magics to secure my brother for herself, when he had escaped the first bargain!" He shook his head, recalling the helpless anger he felt when they had first realized what had occurred. "We ensured that every elf knew how Maiar were made."

He tilted his head back against the wall, trying to find the calm of the ocean within himself. "Ulmo stayed with me sometimes; he allowed my children Ossë and Uinen for a long while to aid us... We had, I think, a very different relationship with our Maiar than you did with yours.”

  
He finished his braids and began to tie them off. “That is not to say,” he continued, “that the oath was without drawbacks; it could be terrible, in its ways. But at all times _I_ was given the choice. It matters very much to me that Ingwë, caught by concern for his entire people, had - and continues to have - no choice; and that your brother Maedhros, like my own brother Elwë, was never given a choice at all." He shook his head again in frustration. "And to have such horrors come forth from one’s own soul! It is beyond imagining.”  
  


There was a long silence, and then he looked at Maglor with sad eyes. “I am sorry to speak of it, but Morwë, who was bearer to Melkor, killed herself within mere years of the Journey. The strength your brother showed in the face of similar adversity is formidable indeed.”  
  


It took everything Maglor had to simply nod, a sharp movement with little control, in acceptance of the words.

  
Círdan looked down and slowly put his beard back into order along with his thoughts. Eventually, he moved to the archway. “Many thanks for listening to this aged mind's contemplation.”  
  


Maglor watched him go, and wearily wondered how, after all this time, he was suddenly without tears to cry, when the grief in him was roaring so loudly that he was no longer sure if the birds were still singing.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

\------------------------------------------------------------------------  


**Year 2941 of the Third Age  
  
_on the journey to rescue Erebor from a great dragon_  
**

“But where did you _come_ from, Master Gandalf? Only the Valar were present at the Chorus of creation, if I understood the Ainulindalë well enough. Surely someone made you, or you…I don’t know, perhaps you spawned from something?” Bilbo frowned, and then laughed awkwardly and fanned himself with a spoon as he noticed Glóin eyeing him oddly across the fire for the question.  
  


Óin reached over and thwacked the redhead. “Let them talk, you! I want to know the answer too – medical interest, and all that,” he muttered, looking at Gandalf with curious eyes. “How old are ye, anyway? If it’s not, uh, impolite to query?”

  
Gandalf let loose a chuckle. “Ah, Master Healer! I was born in the time the elves accord the Years of the Trees, when all was starlight and shadow here on Arda. And I was born here, oh yes! The earth was beautiful then, and in a different way than it is now.” He turned to Bilbo. “I cannot tell you how I was created – perhaps I do not remember – but I am of the Vala Varda, and of Enel,” he grumbled into his pipe, “for whatever that is worth.”  
  


Bilbo started. “But wait – is not Enel an elven name? It follows the form of the Wakers!" He paused, as no answer seemed forthcoming. "Master Gandalf?”  
  


Gandalf hummed, and did not speak again as night fell around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 12/18/20: I've put more thought into this now that I've been writing more chapters, and this chapter has since been edited. Among other things, Gandalf is now the child of Enel, not Nurwë.


	2. he will do this thing to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros finally tells Fingon the worst of what happened in Angband. Fingon does some (literal) soul exploration and is horrified but supportive.
> 
> Featured characters: Maedhros, Fingon  
> Secondary characters: Maglor, Fingolfin, Caranthir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: rape mentions, suicide mentions, (past mentions only, nothing active in this chapter), keep yourselves safe
> 
> \- as usual i wrote this at 3am and it has not been looked at by a second pair of eyes, please enjoy, all comments and kudos are welcome
> 
> \- chapter title taken from relevant section last chapter
> 
> While I think they would still mostly be speaking Quenya at this point, I've chosen to refer to each character in the narrative by their Sindarin name for ease of reading for the majority. Their Quenya names & nicknames do pop up, though, so if you're lost on that here's a guide:
> 
> Fingon = Findekáno = Findo  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol = Russo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Moringotto = Morgoth = Melkor  
> Sauron = haha trick question this one's already Quenya and everybody knows it

**Year 7 of the First Age**

_**seven years after Fingolfin's host arrives in Beleriand; two years after Fingon rescues Maedhros from Thangorodrim** _

\--

Fingon blinked the sleep away from his vision and looked up the sound that had awoken him. From across the room, a spill of dull red hair fell over swathes of bandages that coated a thin back, shaking gently between breaths. Something was wrong.

He rose from his corner chair and stepped as silently as he could over to the bed, to the husband that he had now been watching over this way for almost two years. Finding the edge of the bedframe with his knees, he saw now that Maedhros was suffering some sort of fit. His face was drawn and wan, eyes closed, and his arms were in odd positions over his chest and hip. This wasn’t the kind of gentle, physical aching that Fingon was used to seeing wrack his still-frail form – rather, it almost seemed like he was remembering anguish of the heart.

Wanting to be careful in announcing his presence – as only sometimes was it welcome – he moved carefully around the bed to face his husband and then slowly sank down on the ground before him. Putting his weight on the mattress rarely ended well, if Maedhros wasn’t already aware of him.

“Husband?”

(Calling him ‘Maitimo’ had quickly been banned by all involved – that was one of the clearest triggers of flashbacks and anxiety that they had discovered. Eru only knew who had used it and how. _(No, he knew. But speaking it aloud, even in his own mind, would have allowed it space in his head.)_ It tore at Fingon that something as pure and lovely as his husband’s _name_ was now discolored and mangled, unable to recover in the way that his body was progressing.)

Maedhros, insensate, did not respond to the call. His left hand, pressed to his chest, was moving, making motions as if to alternately tear at and palm his heart, his very core. Was something wrong with his fëa? Fingon should be able to feel it, if so – but no, it was in the same state as it had been when they first returned, borne by Thorondor. His soul was torn, worn, edges fluttering; with small gaps of Unlight and lengthy dark cracks surrounding the links of their bond.

Fingon frowned, unsure whether to wake him. It did not seem to be worsening – but neither had it healed in any of the time he had been recovering. Caranthir, the most proficient healer among them, had been unsure of the effects from the beginning, but because Maedhros had not faded any further, the situation had been written off temporarily. But he couldn’t imagine anything else causing this state; it was not a nightmare, and nothing physical could have triggered a flashback when he was sleeping. Even if it had, those did not manifest like this.

Fingon reached out a hand tentatively, keeping an eye on Maedhros’ expression. He eyed the stump being pressed to a thin hip, but moved to rest his hand on Maedhros’, directly over his heart. Maybe he would be able to feel whatever internal conflict was causing this.

In an instant, pain exploded in his head and back, and he found himself suddenly facing the ceiling in a place decidedly not where he had been a second before. He lay where he was awkwardly for a minute or more before he regained his senses and found that he had been thrown across the room and – _what in Tulkas’ name_ , he thought – partially through the light wooden wall separating the room from the hall. His ears, twitching and catching up with his sight a moment too late, heard strangled gasping. He pushed himself up, ignoring the sick feeling in his head. “Nelyo?! I – what is the matter?!”

Maedhros stared at him, panting, arms out and shaking madly. Fear and anger warred in his dull eyes. Fingon was truly shocked, now – he’d been thrown through a wall or two in his life, usually by his sister, and instinctive reactions were common once you’d been in a battle for your very life. But Maedhros had always recognized him, even when he thought Fingon was a cruel hallucination. This dreadful, fearful unrecognition was something entirely new, and Fingon found that he did not like it one bit. “Nelyo, it is your husband?” he tried weakly, as footsteps sounded down the hall.

Fingolfin pounded down the hall, robes fluttering, and caught sight of his son lying halfway through a wall. “Findo?! What has happened? We heard a crash, which I see now was you – but –“ he came to a stop by the open door and looked inward, checking, and found his scarred nephew on the bed breathing heavily, eyes wild.

Fingon sat forward through the wall, jostling a piece of wood off of his leg. Getting up did not seem to be in the cards just yet. Maedhros was looking in Fingolfin’s direction now, as if pinpointing a new noise, but not quite seeing him despite the evening light. His uncle, wisely, did not move forward, and instead slowly lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs, and exchanged a look with his son around the remaining wall. Very quietly, he asked, “What happened?”

“I don’t know, Atar,” Fingon sighed, voice catching on a sob. “He doesn’t know it’s me. I thought he was hurting, but I think now he was having a flashback, a different kind than before, and I touched his hand and he did this, and I don’t know what to do!” He caught himself as his voice rose, not wanting to- to what? Catch Maedhros’ attention? Was he afraid of his own husband?

No! He was Valiant; he was Loved; he was Kind; and above all he was married to an ellon who he knew to be equally so. Actions taken while literally out of his mind could not change that. He just…was not sure what to do. Caranthir could not have directed them in this, a situation wholly unknown to the Eldar.

He raised a hand to rub at the tears running down his face. He felt for a moment like the way that Maedhros’ soul felt, torn and loose and not sure how to be put back together again. His father remained silent, likely wondering what to do.

Still on the floor, Fingon ignored his physical body briefly and focused inward, visualizing his soul, his husband’s, and the glowing link that connected them once again. Normally colorful with thoughts and emotions, it had turned darkly blue on his side and was a steely, dismal gray on Maedhros’. It wasn’t any less powerful but seemed to reflect his lack of mental presence. For all intents and purposes, Maedhros was not in the room with them, but somewhere in Angband, or within himself and unable to claw his way out. Fingon frowned and worked his mental way over to Maedhros’ fëa. He ran disembodied, gentle hands over it, mapping out its soft surface and dipping into the hard little holes and cracks scattered across his form.

Suddenly, a shock passed through him, and a feeling of wrongness seemed to pulsate from each gap of unlight. Fingon found himself ousted from his mind’s eye as Maedhros keeled over, keening, his hand clawing at his chest desperately. His hair fell down over the side of the bed, exposing his neck. It looked like the fight had gone out of him all at once, released and transformed into sorrow and despair. Fingon did not know if his husband would recognize him now, but he found that he must try – in the face of the Unlight, this anguish, all patience fled.

Any feelings of indignity long gone, he levered himself onto his knees and began crawling towards the bed so as to present the least amount of threat possible to his husband’s instincts. Maedhros did not move from bent position, braced over his knees. Coming up to bare feet, Fingon tried again. “Nelyo, Nelyo please, it’s me. Findekáno.” Seeing no response, he brought his hands up to the side of the scarred face and smoothed his hands over rough, wet cheeks. "It's me. You are safe. You are in Barad Eithel, surrounded by our people, recovering, even my father is here, and your brothers, and we are all safe, my love, please-“ his voice broke.

“Please, what did they do to you? Where are the pieces of you? What is missing?” He kept his hands still, as if lending warmth to cold skin, and brought his forehead to Maedhros’, red strands caught between. “My love, my light, my eternal star in the darkness, Telperion to my Laurelin, the one I love above all else.“ He heard his father rise slowly and move away down the hall. _Hopefully to fetch Makalaurë_ , he thought. He continued whispering softly, sending love and hope down their bond as Maedhros began to calm. Fingon waited till he was quiet and the bond began to fill with palest color again. A thought not his own appeared in his mind.

_I am sorry._

Oh, Nelyo.

Fingon the Valiant summed up his courage and brought dark, strong fingers calloused by archery up to run over his love’s thin lips. “Russo, what is this?”

His husband, his strong husband, tormented and weak but still full of love and power, shivered. Fingon gave him time.

“They took from me, Findo, they made me - I don’t -!” he sobbed, and Fingon tried to hum calmingly through what seemed like an ocean of tears.

“What did they take, Russo?” he finally managed. His husband, his tortured, glorious, sweet, scared husband, seemed to pull himself together and unfold. He moved slowly, pained, and shifted back on the bed to allow Fingon up with him. He sank into a pillow on his side, staying in that horrible curled-up position, but facing his husband as if Fingon was a bulwark against the horrible things beyond. He sought out a hand and brought it again to his face and closed eyes as if the soothing touches had alone banished the flashbacks and internal strife.

Fingon tried to arrange himself comfortably in a seated position and failed. After a minute of awkward fumbling, he laid back on his side as well and _hoped-worried-hated-awaited_ the rest of the explanation. His husband, across from him, looked much like he had when Fingon had entered the room earlier, but was at least more alert. The hand was back on his chest. They were close enough to breathe each other’s air, which Fingon often claimed was gross but allowed more and more frequently as it seemed to reassure Maedhros that he was both real and safe.

His husband took a breath and started again. “Do you. Do you remember the first oath. The arrangement with the Valar. What Aulë did to Grandfather.”

Fingon frowned. “What Grandfather did _for_ Aulë, you mean?” Where was this going?

Maedhros’ eyes opened to slits in response, the now-dull orbs flashing in anger. “No. What Aulë visited upon him. Manwë upon Ingwë. And so many others. Do you remember.”

Fingon had a sinking feeling. It was suddenly all he could to nod. Speech had fled, and with it an encroaching horror.

Grey eyes closed again, and the bluish circles underneath almost seemed to deepen as he spoke. “They did it to me. They forced their power into me, over and over, I don’t know how long, and the things that came out-“ he broke off with a sob, hand spasming.

The cracks of Unlight pulsed from where Fingon had gone back to half-observing them through the bond. He took a breath, attempting to gird his own being as he said the awful truth, and gasped out, “They took pieces of your soul. They took pieces of your body, and then took pieces of your soul.”

His husband flinched, and then tried to laugh, which came out like a strangled sob. “Oh Findo, they took my body long before that. They took me, and rearranged me, and tore pieces away, and then shoved their own power into my jagged edges, and- and- what came pouring out was foul, and horrible, and I wanted to die so badly but they _had_ me, Findo, they _had_ me like you do and I couldn’t escape, I still can’t-“ he cried, taking great gasping breaths as Fingon shook and held him close.

They lay like that for a while.

Eventually, Fingon realized something didn’t make sense. _How,_ he thought quietly through the tears, _how could they do this, when the oath only worked because it was sworn to by the Wakers? How could they pervert it so?_ He couldn’t bring himself to ask.

But Maedhros heard him, heard that faint question, and sobbed-laughed again. “You want to know, Findo? Sauron told me! They told me that Moringotto had experimented upon my sire! As if their evil could not extend to any greater bounds, they- they corrupted the incorruptible, the staunch enemy, after which point I must have been but a mouse in a well-practiced trap…” He shivered.

“They used me to create vile Maiar, Findo, and surely we will have to fight them, and I will have to look upon them and know my own part in it, over and over, in this unending war. And I have holes in me because of it, and you have had to look upon them, and know that I am no longer whole and never will be again. I am party to corruption because I was so weak. All of the violence that those beings will one day wreak is something that I am partially responsible for, because _I could not kill myself before they came forth!_ Over and over, Findo. Again and again.” His hand was limp now, all strength having gone out of him in the telling.

They lay there for several minutes, or maybe hours, as each tried to process what had been said.

Fingon was beyond words, his grief blocking any physical communication as his throat closed and his eyes blurred through tears. But he finally shook his head and sent through their connection: _No, no my love. You may not be physically whole, you may not be whole in fëa, but you are wholly in my heart, and I am only glad that you are here today for me to be with. I See that this awful thing will eat away at you, and I will fight it; and I am glad that you told me, for now I can begin to try to fill the Unlight in your being with myself instead, if you would accept me, for we two are one and swore so long ago._ _Sauron_ _and Moringotto will have no grasp, no handhold on you_ _in the face of my power._

He paused, trying to work out what would comfort his husband the most, and chose what was obvious to him. _You gave yourself to me, and by your own admission they merely_ took _from you. I have never willingly shared you, and any relationship made by force is no relationship at all. You will see their Creations and know firmly that you were a tool, stolen, used, and misused, but you were not the craftsman, and you are not and will never be the Enemy. I will tell you this as many times as I need to, Nelyafinwë Russandol, for I love you whether or not you are whole, and I want you here with me. For all that I am distressed, that I grieve for what they have done to you, I am gladdened that you have shared it with me. I wish for naught but to know your burdens and to make you happy, in what ways that are available to us. And I forgive you for throwing me through a wall. I will get you back when you are well again, and able to fight._

Maedhros’s eyes flew open and he choked. “I what?! Are you- are you alright? Findo!” His husband only smiled, love in his eyes and a knot in his throat. Maedhros looked upon his truth and quailed, unable to think through the forgiveness that Fingon was offering to him. He moved his head on the pillow, pressing his forehead to his husband’s, and grasped both of the dark hands in his pale left, bringing all three to his heart. Their eyes closed, and Fingon reached out and perceived what Maedhros had been feeling for and grasping uselessly at for years, unseen beyond the more obvious physical injuries and constant triggered flashbacks of other kinds.

There was an emptiness, gray and ragged, a dark breach existing in the soul-space over his heart. The expanse meant for lovers, for children, for family – it was not twisted and ugly, as Fingon might have expected from long years in Angband, but simply not-there, as if it had been slowly, cruelly shredded. If they ever had children, or another lover, or if their siblings ever had new children – he would have nothing to give. No more soul-bonds for loved ones. No further capacity to grow and prove love, to maintain an attachment that could be felt over vast distances and used to reassure each other. It was gone.

Fingon pushed into the flat planes of his chest futilely, searching for things that were not there, and then tilted forward to kiss Maedhros furiously, sorrowfully, a scream and a howl that no one else could hear. His husband returned it equally, devouring what he was given and asking for more. They couldn’t do much in his state – bringing him to completion with a hand was generally too much for the little strength he had regained – but neither was particularly aroused in the first place; each was simply seeking comfort, in a moment when frail hugs were not enough.

Maglor turned from where he had been standing silently in the doorway with Caranthir and Fingolfin and nodded at them, motioning to the sitting room down the hall where he could play a calming melody in earshot. Whatever Maedhros and Fingon had shared with each other was private, and his brother was clearly out of the worst of the fit. Whatever had caused it would be revealed in time, and the only aid he could offer now was lullabies and songs of gentleness and clarity.

Fingolfin drew the door closed behind them and went to go arrange a temporary cover for the hole in the wall. Caranthir remained where he was, staring at the now-closed door with a pursed mouth, and contemplating such vicious maladies as the ones that he could not simply stitch closed. Only at the end of Maglor’s first song did he emerge out of his thoughts and turn away.

\--


	3. overwhelming, nurturing [illustrated]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment in the lives of Ingwë and Manwë; care from their sons Ingalaurë and Eönwë; Thorondor makes a brief appearance. (Illustrated!)
> 
> Featured characters: Ingwë, Manwë, Eönwë, Ingwion  
> Secondary characters: Glorfindel, Glorfindel's mother, Thorondor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: rape (not graphic, mostly figurative/metaphysical, but it happens in this chapter – it’s *technically* a consensual encounter but isn’t really welcome)
> 
> \- trans glorfindel? trans glorfindel. nerd glorfindel? nerd glorfindel. Still a stronk himbo? Absolutely. (well, eventually.) Thank you all for coming to my ted talk. (Tolkien Gateway notes "Laurefindelë" as the Quenya root of the Sindarin "Glorfindel", and you may notice that it has the feminine ending "ë" rather than just ending neutrally in "findel" as would otherwise be appropriate. Yes that's all I have to go on, no I will not recant, and no I do not actually know any Quenya lol)
> 
> \- i have two more chapters already written up for this, so make sure to subscribe! 😘
> 
> \- art is by me since this scene lives rent-free in my brain ("oh wow," you say, "your ao3 icon has been eönwë this whole time, huh?" yes yes it has) -> https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/640242085007589376/tfw-you-give-up-and-draw-a-scene-from-your-own-fic
> 
> tl;dr Quenya names:
> 
> Laurefindelë = Glorfindel  
> Ingalaurë = Inglor = Ingwion  
> Carnistir = Caranthir

**Years of the Trees 1360**

**245 Valian years after the Great Journey**

**\---**

Light arced across the room, catching on glittering mobiles and delicate crystal fittings. The space was lavishly appointed, heavily decorated yet comfortable, with soft, stuffed pillows on chaises and swooping sofas and a tête-à-tête near the low gaming table. It was made exactly to his tastes: soft blues and greens and buttery yellows, ivory and navy edgings, gentle scalloping on table edges, and careful embroidery. The last he had commissioned from first Míriel and then Carnistir, the young grandson who followed in his friend’s footsteps.

Most of his personal wing of the palace upon Taníquetil was decorated in this style, an ode and an elegy to the lake he was once born in and the people there whom he had loved.

Shaking his head, he picked up the pillow next to his knees and absently fluffed it. Laurefindelë would be along soon with her mother, and he was looking forward to an update on the child's progress. She had recently begun combining her interests in mathematics and philosophy, and her mother Manyasúre had already sent him several excited notes. Only a year after her first thought to their combination and the child had already developed a foundational theories in the subject, which Ingwë saw no issue with encouraging. Goodness knew that the Ñoldorin masters in Tirion needed some Vanyarin competition. He certainly didn’t understand most of her writing – though he did make an effort to read through the material when she brought it up – but Indis’ study in mathematics, combined with the philosophical training of one of the child’s tutors, were guiding influences. Ingwë felt quite happy on the sidelines, contributing nothing but quiet happiness at being able to listen to her talk of the things that she loved. It was not every day a grandchild was able to out-argue scholars many times their age! He was enjoying the experience, which he thought was probably how Finwë had long felt of Fëanáro and his brood.

He smoothed his fingers along the delicate beaded lacework that rimmed the edge of the pillow. A gentle breeze floated from the open windows, soothing and encouraging him to tilt his head back against the high armrest of the lounger, his enormous mass of hair caught between it and his body to pillow his neck. He lifted a hand carelessly and wove his fingers between the play of lights, beams floating over his knuckles and glancing off of the tight gold cuff he wore on his wrist. Turning his hand around, he examined the color on his palm. The gentle wind caused the crystal mobiles around him to tinkle lightly, the sound and atmosphere calming. It caressed his bare neck, ruffled his light robes, and slowly began working the center-front clasps open.

Ingwë gasped in delayed realization and tensed. He carefully took a breath, told his body to stay where it was, and purposefully relaxed his muscles. "My lord," he whispered. The gentle wind continued, working the last clasp above his sash open and making its way intrusively underneath the fabric. It was probably a queer feeling, he supposed, of light touches without substance, but he had so long been familiar with it that he could no longer tell.

"My lord," he began again. "I am expecting visitors…"

The breeze solidified slowly into what felt like hands, but too many for any one elf. One smoothed down his chest, exposed to the air; another started playing with his hair; two more went to his nipples and began flicking and fondling. Ingwë gasped, annoyed. Manwë was not supposed to return for days yet; he was perfectly able to sustain their work in the meantime. "My lord, please, I do not need-" _new power yet,_ he would have finished, were he able. But Manwë had pushed in abruptly, bringing remote power to bear down on him and invading his person. Ingwë felt the familiar, crushing, hard-to-breathe feeling of raw power, cool and strong, that felt like it was reaching inside of his core and breaching every part of him at once. The wind was gone; now it felt as if he was mid-encounter, being taken in every possible way. An overwhelming presence was forcing its way down his throat, up his nether entrance, filling him and pushing itself to his core.

The small light that he had been instinctively, slowly nurturing was illuminated as the power filling him began to reach and surround it, feeding it like a scheduled mealtime. Ingwë gasped and sobbed, unable to put a single thought together as his lord moved through and within him.

And then as suddenly as it had began, it ended, and Manwe was gone. Ingwë's head lolled on the chair arm, weak as he panted, tears and drool running down his chin. Great gasps of air were not enough to calm him and he felt panic seeping into the pieces of him that his lord had just vacated. The tiny Maia within his chest pulsed gently, happily, content with the power it had just been offered. It took him long minutes to regain any feeling in his limbs, feeling stripped and empty. He eventually curled to the side, face pressed to the over-stuffed back of the couch, and tried to concentrate on breathing. How much time had passed?

Minutes - hours - it could have been days - later, he heard footsteps behind him and a hand, a real, physical hand, pressed gently to his shoulder, warmth radiating from it.

"Father?"

Ingwë tried to pull himself back together, to present a front that wasn't a broken, sobbing elf on a sofa dedicated to his dead wife - and failed miserably. Everything hurt, a deep spiritual ache and absence that left his physical body unable to move. He felt the couch dip as Eönwë sat down next to him.

"Manyasúre and Laurefindelë were here earlier, Father. I asked them to return next week. I hope that is alright. Can I do anything to help?"

Ingwë took a deep breath and managed to get out, "Hurts.". It was like his channels had been scorched by cold fire, by a power they were not meant to accommodate. It was a familiar sensation, but not one that normally affected him so badly. He despised having to rely on his children after times like these, but Eonwë had long ago learned how to soothe his spirit when it was too much.

His son's hand reached slowly between the couch and Ingwe's chest to flatten against his heart, touching nothing but what he needed to. A gentle warmth, familiar and welcome, spread out from the contact, and webbed over the cracks that Ingwë felt in his being. His son could not return what had been taken, or heal the damage from Manwë's giving, but the soothing, familiar power was welcome and its similarity to his own allowed Ingwë's spirit to receive it without pain. He sank into the feeling, his breathing slowing, watching as if from afar as his son's spirit made contact with the new child in a greeting before pulling away and continuing to map over his spirit. He heard sound far away, quiet murmuring, and ignored it in favor of allowing the soothing power to consume him.

On the outside, Ingalaurë and Eönwë were talking quietly. "How is he?"

Eönwë replied, "Not well. Worse than usual. This was not planned, and I think that Lord Manwë took him by surprise. I don't know how long it went on, I only came across Manyasúre and your child in the anteroom and was told that he seemed to be out of sorts - talking to nothing."

Ingalaurë frowned. "Nothing? Manwë did not bring his physical form?" He paused, adding up his knowledge, and wondering. "Do you think that if we asked for an audience, if we explained that Father is worse when the lord does not come physically, that he would cease to send only his power?" It was a futile hope.

Eönwë shook his head. "I informed him after the first time they tried it. The Lady Indis surmised that there is a grounding effect when he is able to share power with a physical body, that he can more easily amplify positive emotion instead of negative, which is what I am trying to do now. But…Father told me once not to tell him again. When Lord Manwë is embodied here in the palace, he has very little time to himself. If the lord merely sends his power, he will be alone before and after, and his time is his own." He looked down sadly at his bearer, conflicted.

Ingalaurë huffed and rubbed at his brow. There were so many things he could say, so much he had already said over the centuries, and all of it was useless. In the end it was his father's choice and he and his siblings could do little against it. He wished that he was able to soothe the pain and emptiness as well as Eonwë could, but he was always jealously glad in the end that his elder Elven siblings had been made by his parents before any of this had begun. They were a physical reminder that something else, something good and pure, _had_ existed and _still_ existed apart from the warped oath that kept his father and the lord together. Ingwë sometimes looked at them - at him - like they were the piece of driftwood keeping him in the air and out of the full grasp of the crushing deep. A precious treasure key to his survival. Ingalaurë knew that their existences were often the thing reminding his father to keep the oath; protecting them, their families, and their subjects was paramount.

He let out a frustrated breath and turned on his heel, walking over to the largest footrest and opening it. He extracted a soft, dark blanket and brought it over to the couch, asking with a nod for the help of Eönwë's other hand to help settle it over their insensible parent. The Maia drew his legs up under the blanket as well and tucked in so that he was curled around the larger form. He could do so little to ease the weight on Ingwë’s shoulders – sitting with him for a while was often the most he could provide. He closed his eyes, feeling out the gaps and pain in the spirit that had once nurtured him, and listened to his brother close the door as he left.

The little soul anchored in his parent’s chest bobbed happily, sensing the aid of its sibling. Eönwë smiled and reached out mentally to pat it. At the moment of contact, his mind was flooded with images of sky, wind, and feathers. Of a bird, floating over mountains and soaring beneath a strange light source. He withdrew slightly and contemplated the vision. Maiar were not usually so developed at this age as to be able to See their own future forms and doings. This one must be powerful. He lifted a hand and ran it over Ingwë’s hair slowly, parting the curls and waves aimlessly. If this child was so strong, it would need more power than the others. That was why Manwë had intervened today, Eönwë decided. He would tell Ingwë once he woke up so that he would know and be prepared. He might already know, but Eönwë would make it clear that he was willing to stay until the child was born – there was nothing pressing that he needed to attend to, and his parent would need the support. It was only coincidence that had brought him here to the palace today; that could not be left to chance again.

He sighed and continued stroking the golden strands, admiring the way they caught the light. This child was but a few months of age and would likely need many years of care before it could be brought fully into being. It was, he thought, rather similar to his own Creation. Ingwë had always told him that he regretted nothing, but now that he was here and witnessing a similar act – well. He was not sure that this was worth any reward.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 12/31: removed mentions of Morwë, that was in error and what happens when you do most of your writing long after midnight and then don't edit as well as you should!! also removed mention of Gildor in connection with Ingwë - that's a headcanon that I don't believe belongs in this 'verse anymore.


	4. as were they indeed living things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor experiments with non-oath-bound Creation by using the most powerful soul he can find: Feanor himself. He is rebuffed, but the idea lives on...  
>    
> Featured characters: Fëanor, Melkor  
> Secondary characters: Curufin, Celebrimbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- no trigger warnings for once! yeehaw
> 
> \- chapter title comes from the quote "Therefore even in the darkness of the deepest treasury the Silmarils of their own radiance shone like the stars of Varda; and yet, as were they indeed living things, they rejoiced in light and received it and gave it back in hues more marvellous than before." which comes from the published Silmarillion, Chapter 7: “Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor.” The quote (bolded) in the last line of this chapter is from the next passage in the same.
> 
> \- this chapter diverges slightly from first oath storylines but is contained in the same universe and describes an event that was referenced in chapter 2. I haven't quite decided if Sauron lied to Maedhros or if Melkor's parting threat did come to pass...
> 
> \- ch 5 is already written and VERY happy so stay on the line lol
> 
> Quenya name notes:
> 
> Tyelpe = Telperinquar = Celebrimbor  
> Curufinwë = Curufin  
> Fëanáro = Feanor

**  
Years of the Trees 1403**

**_Forty-seven Valian years before the creation of the Silmarils  
  
_ **

* * *

Two figures stood facing each other in a bright and well-stocked smithy, close enough to be mistaken for lovers if one lacked context. They were the same height, but where one was graceful and rounded with their long waved hair tied back in a tail, the other was robust and well-muscled with his hair braided into a simple crown.

Ilcaírë lifted a delicate hand and placed it over the rough, worn fabric covering Fëanáro’s chest, spreading their fingers out as if greedy for contact.

Fëanáro’s eyes fluttered closed as he felt power spread within his chest and call to him. Was it true? Was this the key to infusing objects with true power? To bring out his own soul and offer pieces of it, as he had done with Nerdanel so many times before to create their children? He could not fathom doing so, no matter how tempting, how seductive this power felt. Ilcaírë was reaching into him, offering their own power to create something great, and yet –

No. This could not be the way. Objects were not children; even the greatest of smith-craft could not compare to his sons, and it was wrong to suggest that it ever would!

Only a being corrupt of thought and heart would ever attempt to teach him this, and Fëanáro opened his eyes and jumped back as if struck. “You! How dare you!” He braced his hand on the table and backed away further, anger suffusing his features. He knew who this was.

“You come into my workshop under an assumed name and try to foul my craft, my very soul? Get thee gone from my domain, thou jail-crow of Mandos!” He grabbed for a hammer and held it up defensively. “Do not think I will not call for Lord Manwë!” (He wouldn’t, but he dearly hoped that Melkor did not know that.)

For a second, he thought that he had miscalculated, but then Ilcaírë’s lithe form melted away. Their form grew dark to his eyes even as their skin color lightened and their clothing sprouted shimmering details. Within moments, Melkor stood before him in the tall, fair, and very male form that was often reproduced in paintings and textbooks. He met Feanaro’s ferocious glare evenly, his eyes like stone as he whispered with a voice borne out of the abyss and full of dark promise:

**_"There will come a day that you will have no recourse to the Valar; that you will be abandoned by all who love you; that you will be finally in my grasp; and then, Fëanáro, then we will try again."_ **

\- before smoke swept up from his feet and a burst of darkness took him away.

All of Feanaro’s breath left him in a whoosh, and he waited long minutes in position, checking corners and doorways before he was satisfied that nothing and nobody remained. He dropped the hammer carelessly to the floor and slumped against the sturdy table, glad for the support. To think that the journeyman he had worked with for so many months was a Vala! That he would threaten him – that he would have turned him to black arts and evil! He dragged a stool over and collapsed upon it, head in his hands as he contemplated the horrible mistake which he had come so close to making. He needed to evaluate every interaction they had had, of those he could remember, to know where he had gone wrong. What else had Melkor gotten out of him, or tempted him to do? What words had he been persuaded to say? If the Vala had gotten so close as to touch his very soul – a full-body shiver went through him at the memory – what else had he contaminated, influenced, and affected? He needed to tell Nerdanel immediately and ask if she had seen anything.

“Father? Are you alright?”

He jumped and swiveled around on the stool. His son Curufinwë was standing in the main doorway with tiny Telperinquar braced upon his hip. The little boy waved and Fëanáro smiled uneasily in return.

“Curvo. I- I will be. Did you need something?”

His son frowned and cocked his head. “I was looking for Ilcaírë. They promised me a report on the moving sculpture from the other week. I had thought that they were in here with you; but I find you alone and, I think, distressed. You are of course more important, so would you tell me what has happened?” He moved into the room and located the highchair, depositing his child in it and handing the boy a chewable toy from his pocket. With Tyelpe situated, he turned back to his father and found another stool on which to perch.

Fëanáro’s face must have shown his apprehension, for Curufinwë stared for slightly too long before prompting him again. He turned away, looking at the light coming through the window, before picking up a bit of slag from the table and fidgeting with it. His son waited patiently despite the unusual behavior.

“There is no real Ilcaírë, apparently. They confronted me today and revealed their true form: he is the Vala Melkor, recently returned from the Void.” He paused. “He…. attempted to sway me into performing magics that are best left to theory, and I bade him to leave us.” He felt anger in his thoughts at the memory, but his surface emotions were still full of fear, anxiety, and disbelief. Anger was for later. He turned to face Curufinwë. “If he ever comes to you, or if anyone ever brings up magics of the soul, please promise me, Curvo, that you will turn them down and tell me at once. Tell your mother. Tell everyone you can, and do not let yourself succumb.”

His son eyed him in confusion. “Succumb?” Telperinquar let out a squeal from his chair, bothered by the serious tones over the table.

Fëanáro frowned. “Yes. He crept into my thoughts, my work, and my ambitions, and it was like a seduction, Curvo. I welcomed it gladly, and but for a late realization – but for my thoughts of _you_ –I would have happily proceeded with his ideas and goals. It was almost too late that I found them to diverge too greatly from my own thoughts and ethics, which I should have been able to realize months ago. I would not have you go through this, and I fear that he may target others now that I know of his mischief. I now question every move I have made in the last year, for I know not what he influenced!”

Curufinwë nodded, discomfited by his father’s agitation.

“Of course, father. And I will tell the apprentices of his perfidy. It was honorable of the Valar to release him, but if this is his behavior in freedom…” he trailed off, looking at his young son. “We cannot allow him to touch our lives.”

* * *

  
But it was too late: for Melkor’s words, deceitful and vile though they were, had been planted in Fëanáro’s mind and began to flourish. The more he distrusted the Valar, the more the soul-craft appealed, and his ambitions grew. By the time that he decided to capture the light of the Trees in a trio of jewels, he knew that the power of his soul would be the key to bringing them forth, and no words from those who knew his plans could persuade him otherwise. And thus the work was done; and **the heart of Fëanor was fast bound to these things that he himself had made.”  
  
**

* * *


	5. a peace in water and darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Círdan and Ulmo enjoy a happy afternoon in the sea; Elwë interrupts their peace with politics. The world may be dark, but their thoughts are light.
> 
> Featured characters: Círdan, Ulmo  
> Secondary characters: Uinen, Elwë, Eöl, Melian, Saeros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this universe needed some happiness, lol. no trigger warnings here! 
> 
> \- every waker’s experience under the oath was different; this chapter stands very clearly in contrast to the ingwë/manwë in ch. 3 and fleshes out a bit of what círdan discussed with maglor in ch. 1. enjoy!
> 
> \- ch. 6 has been written and will be up in a few days :)
> 
> Quenya names:
> 
> Nówë = Círdan  
> Melyanna = Melian  
> Elwë = Elu Thingol  
> Alaton = Daeron  
> Sárarossë = Saeros

**Years of the Trees 1190  
  
**

**_Ten Valian years before Lúthien Tinúviel is born_ **

* * *

The sound of laughter echoed above the dark waves as Nówë fended off splashes from beings of water and seaweed. “Uinen! My word, dearest, you are growing strong!” He ducked another small deluge and wound up with a mouth full of seawater, coughing.

His daughter emerged in front of him with delight in her eyes and turned to her father in excitement. “Did you hear! Bearer says I’m strong!” She wriggled in the water, causing it to ripple gently in their direction, and Ulmo nodded at her with a kind smile. He picked up a hand – at once full of both fingers and fins – and waved her in the direction of her sisters in the distance. She laughed and dove under the waves, tail flicking water up in an arc as she went off.

Nówë watched her go and then turned to his husband, legs churning to stay afloat in the deep water. He had no fear of drowning, but the indignity of choking on liquid was not one he was fond of. Ulmo swam over and brought strong, warm arms around him, lifting him further out of the water and settling elven legs around his hips securely. Nówë leaned forward, arms encircling the thick neck, and breathed in the salt and ocean scents of Ulmo’s chest. “Is something the matter?”

Ulmo shook his head and sank back in the water, submerging them to their pectorals. His long hair floated out to surround them, mingling with his husband’s, and Nówë was overtaken by a profound sense of peace. He closed his eyes and for a few minutes lost himself to his husband’s warm grasp and the song of the sea. It was echoed by the little fluttering thing in his chest, too small yet to sense emotion from but present nonetheless. Ulmo reached in and poked it gently, and it gave a little happy shiver. Nowë laughed and mentally batted the finger away.

The waves lapped up against his back and the faint light of the stars shimmered on their crests and broke up the deep darkness. They drifted for a while, keeping the shore in sight and trusting their children to remain close by. Nothing could threaten those under Ulmo’s protection in his own demesne.

All too soon, their peace was interrupted. Noise filtered through the gentle ocean sounds and Nówë became aware of a figure standing on the beach calling out to them. He lifted his head and gestured for his husband to bring them on to the sand. Ulmo touched his ankles to make sure they were secure around his waist and then began gliding towards the beach, the water allowing them smooth passage.

When they reached a height at which Nówë could stand on his own, he unwound his legs and did so, leaving the warmth to reach out and accept the clothes that his brother offered. He waited to put them on, hoping that he could have some time to air-dry before he needed to go off and do whatever had brought Elwë here, but the harried look on his brother’s face led him to sigh and shake the sand off them.

As he pulled the robe over his head, Elwë began explaining the latest indignity that Melyanna had been subjected to, and Nówë was suddenly very glad the cloth still covered his rolling eyes. He took a breath and pulled it the rest of the way down, finishing the sash with a quick knot. “Goodness, brother, are you really unable to take care of this yourself?”

Elwë huffed, and started forward, long legs eating up ground before Nówë hurried to catch up. “I tried! And Alaton is away, or I would have asked him, but it’s one of your students that committed the offense, and I have no idea what the proper punishment is. If I assigned a penalty I thought was appropriate and turned out to be wrong, they’ll claim I overstepped my bounds, and ask what am I doing leading a people anyway,” he wheezed angrily, “when I misjudged someone so badly that I lost a full century in a forest and kept the rest of you from proceeding on to Valinor? I cannot make a single misstep here, Nówë; even though all recognize my election as fair, they continue to hold Melyanna against me!” He threw his arms up and Nówë couldn’t help snorting at the melodrama.

His brother turned and glared. “Thank you for the support!”

Nówë shook his head and claimed, “No, no, I will help! You are here on my hospitality, after all, and it would be dreadfully cruel of me to deny our leader help in his time of need!” Elwë eyed his toothy smile suspiciously as they made their way into the closest building and held out a hand for his brother to take as they walked into the amphitheater currently housing council meetings.

His wet hair was still dripping behind him as they entered a bubble of noise, the population clamoring for attention. He made eye contact with Eöl, who was sitting atop a table with her legs crossed and clearly judging him for coming directly from his husband’s domain. He sent her a surreptitious wink and then refocused, finding Melyanna and Sárarossë, who stood across from each other in the middle of the room. Wishing he could roll his eyes again – Sárarossë was barely out of his majority and should have been stopped by someone who knew better - he strode forward and got to work.

* * *

That evening, council long over, he left the building and walked back out to the beach. No one was visible in the waves, but Ulmo felt like he was nearby so Nówë settled down in the sand to wait. He allowed the water to lap at his toes as he slowly undid the ties on the front of the robe that he had ignored in pulling it on earlier. As he released the last one, the top of a watery head had appeared in the shallows, and a pair of dark eyes followed his movements. Nówë smiled and released his sash, allowing the cloth to fall off of him. It wasn’t an invitation, necessarily; Ulmo knew that the Cuivié folk had lived for many years without raiment, and that Nówë was far and away more comfortable without anything on his skin. The elf had laughed, once, and said that it made them perfect for each other, as he wanted nothing but air and water on his skin.

Ulmo formed a pair of dripping arms and reached out to stroke Nówë’s calves, conveying love and security through touch and their bond. Nówë leaned forward comfortably onto his thighs and reached out a hand, meeting Ulmo’s and entangling. He closed his eyes and sat quietly, enjoying the peace of the evening and the presence of the benevolent Vala to whom he had sworn himself.

* * *


	6. the form of a story; a foe of old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor admits his age - mostly - to inquiring minds in the Hall of Fire; Gandalf dies at the hand of the Balrog in Khazad-dum and Varda swoops in to resurrect him; relatedly, Elrond rescues someone from a dark spot.
> 
> Featured characters: Erestor, Elrond, Gandalf, Glorfindel, Bilbo  
> Secondary characters: Galadriel, Lindir, Varda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- tw: *very* vague metaphysical non-con references. i.e. you probably wouldn't even get it without reading chapters 1-3.
> 
> \- thank you to @starlightwalking for commenting on my tumblr notes and inspiring this chapter!!
> 
> \- ch. 7 will be up in a few days, as usual, so stay in touch~
> 
> Quenya name guide:
> 
> Olórin = Gandalf  
> ?????? = Erestor (sorry I refuse to spoil this lol. Check ch 1 if you don’t figure it out by the end, or ask)

**Third Age 3010**

**_Nine years after Bilbo Baggins leaves the Shire permanently for Rivendell_ **

\--

The mood in the Hall of Fire was soft and happy, and quiet conversation and contented snores filled the air. The fire itself at the end of the hall radiated warmth, beating back the cold of the winter night. Elves – and the occasional Man and a single Hobbit – sat gathered in groups on overstuffed loungers and intricately carved stools. Some, like Gandalf, were playing board games; others were reading, napping, and talking amongst themselves. Dinner was long since over and after-dinner drinks had commenced.

Bilbo frowned, a little tipsy and quite annoyed that his thoughts were not coming out of his mouth in the lovely way that they were occurring to him. “But it’s a children’s counting song, yes? Not a literal- it didn’t actually happen, the one hundred forty-four. Right? I’ve never seen a reason for the various groupings and amounts, and it seems to me that if the story was supposed to have more meaning, then each number and group would come with its own story and moral.” He swiveled to look worriedly at Glorfindel, who sat near him listening. “ _Are_ there additional stories? Did I miss something?” 

The elf, draped over a lush settee with a glass of light wine in his hand, waved lazily with the other and shrugged. “I’ve heard explanations here and there, but never anything interesting enough. And it’s not a topic people generally debate; I haven’t even heard anyone bring up the story in an Age or more. Hazard of having so few children nowadays, I suppose.”

Bilbo frowned and crossed his stubby arms. “You told me you were a philosopher! Surely you have an opinion on the matter. This is part of your creation story,” he harrumphed. “Even if it’s all made up, it’s still important.”

Glorfindel snorted ungracefully and let the sound devolve into a real laugh. “To clarify, Bilbo, I was trained as a _mathematical_ philosopher – querying the use of numbers in our lives, so on and so forth; applying equations to…. I don’t actually know the word in Sindarin or Westron. Shame.” He took a sip. “Yes, of course we argued about the story in Valinor in my youth. But we had so little to do that it seemed sensible to us to waste time on such things. I don’t recall anyone debating it seriously. _Laws and Customs_ has more meaning and guidance, and you know full well what I think of that pile of tripe!”

Bilbo laughed, nodding along. “Alright, so, counting song. I still wonder how much of it is truth, though. A story is made to teach and influence, so where did it come from? How old _is_ it? Oh, this is an interesting line of thought, tracing one of the oldest stories of the Eldar! I rather think I should have brought paper and ink.” Turning, he looked to Gandalf, who was seated across the room at a gaming board and attempting to best Lindir at something played with pebbles and leaves. “Gandalf, old friend, do you have your writing set with you? Lord Elrond keeps telling me I should retain some tools under yon window seat there, and I keep forgetting…”

Gandalf laughed, a low and warm sound that made Bilbo grin, and made to join them. “No, I am afraid not! But whatever is the matter? Has Lord Glorfindel let something tantalizing slip?”

Bilbo explained, and Gandalf’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the _Cuivienyarna_! I remember it well. It’s quite old – I learnt it as a young boy myself, as a matter of fact. But why wonder when we can ask?” He scanned the room and smiled when his eyes came upon the lady Galadriel and lord Erestor, who were in quiet conversation together and nursing matched cups of miruvor. “Chief Councilor, pray would you join us for a minute to answer a burning question?”

Erestor eyed him oddly at the query but nodded his assent, putting down his cup with a quiet word to the lady and rising to join them. “Of course, Olórin.” He pulled a matching Second Age chair over to Glorfindel’s settee and sat down with a straight back, rearranging his robes to fall smoothly. “What is the question?”

Bilbo smiled jovially and dove in. “Well, Master Erestor, Gandalf here says that the _Cuivienyarna_ is older than he is, and I know that he is very old, as he let slip on our Quest that he was born during the Years of the Trees.” He elbowed the air in the Maia’s direction and winked. “You thought I wouldn’t remember, but I did! Anyway, I would like to know if it is more than a simple tale to teach children their numbers. Has it any basis in fact? I know you are a great lore-master, but I have read most of the older books in the library here and am no further along in my understanding, so if Gandalf thinks you can answer it than I presume you were there!” He finished with a flourish and waited, expectant.

Erestor looked astonished and not a little caught out. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to glare at Gandalf. “You know very well that I do not like to advertise my age.”

Upon hearing this, Glorfindel started and sat up, narrowly avoiding slopping his wine over the rim of the glass. He looked gobsmacked. “You’re a Waker? Ai Elbereth, I didn’t know that.” He stared and narrowed his eyes as if Erestor’s prim, neat appearance was going to fall away and reveal the naked and untamed form of the early Unbegotten.

Erestor, unfortunately, could tell exactly what he was thinking. “Stop that,” he hissed, swatting at a golden shoulder. “And honestly - as if you know everything about everyone, you boor!” He resettled his hands in his lap and turned to Bilbo. “Indeed, the tale is based in fact.” Bilbo clapped happily, and Erestor went on.

“Rúmil – you would know him as Rúmil of Tirion, of the Lambengolmor - was our first teacher once we began having children. I believe he created it to teach the young ones their numbers, but the numbers themselves are mostly made up. We hardly counted heads as we were gathering everyone together, and we saw no need to do so until it became clear later that elves were disappearing. By that point some had had children and others had died, so any estimations about original numbers would have been useless. We also were not sure if we had found everyone – I maintain that it is entirely possible that a different group of elves may have awoken on their own and left the lakeside before we met them.” He shrugged. “I suppose we might have asked the Valar, but it never occurred to us to do so.”

Bilbo looked starstruck. “My word, now there’s a theory I’ve never heard! Imagine. So – and please pardon me if this is rude, since I am making an assumption - you are one of the third group in the tale, the Nelyar who comprised the Avari, Teleri, Sindar, and so on? So what is it that you consider yourself, being old enough that you remember very different kin groups than elves of today accord to?”

Erestor frowned and examined his dark hands. “Well now, I haven’t had to introduce myself in a long while, and of course everybody simply assumes that I am Sindarin because of my coloring. I suppose I consider myself to be Cuivié, if anything? We did gather initially according to physical appearance because it was easier to keep track of newcomers that way, but the term ‘Nelyar,’” he paused, grimacing, “simply indicated the people who gathered to the third Waker, Enel – also a title, ‘Three’ - and thus I never identified with it. In comparison, ‘Sindarin’ is more of a cultural category than a physical one and therefore seems appropriate. I live in a Sindarin realm, speak the language, and have long since assimilated to the culture, after all.”

Glorfindel seemed entranced, and Bilbo nodded, tucking the information into his mind to ruminate on later. Gandalf had his pipe out and was puffing merrily at it, eyes closed.

Erestor glanced at the big golden elf and sighed fondly. “Let me guess. You were entranced with the early tales as a child, and wanted to be a Waker yourself?”

Glorfindel laughed, blushing faintly. “Ah, I see you’ve heard it all before! Yes, of course. I demanded my parents tell me everything. They put up with it, but, well. I’ll just say that after everything we learned from Fëanor, my interests quite dried up.” There seemed to be something on the tip of his tongue, but he said nothing more, only shaking his head.

Bilbo perked up at the mention of the great elf-lord who had been instrumental in the Doom - but felt a great wave of exhaustion sweep over him as the late hour made itself known. He gave a great yawn and waved at himself. “I’m afraid I need to be turning in, my friends! Thank you for entertaining this old Hobbit.” Glorfindel nodded in agreement and drained the last of his glass with a quick swallow before levering himself up. Gandalf and Erestor stayed seated as the two bid them good-bye and wandered towards the exit, dropping their glasses off halfway on a nearby table.

Erestor waited until they were almost to the door and there was no one in hearing distance. Then he turned and said to Gandalf softly, “You are a truly terrible child.”

Gandalf nodded, clearly quite pleased with himself, and replied, “Naturally!”

* * *

**Late January, Third Age 3019**

**_The Quest of the Fellowship in progress_ **

\--

Êlminui the messenger shivered, gripping her scroll tightly as she delivered the last line of the message from Lothlórien to the assembled crowd: “And my lords, the worst of all news – the wizard Gandalf met his death in battle against a mighty Balrog, a foe of old!”

Glorfindel drew in a shocked breath, loud enough that Elrond turned around to make sure that he was alright. Erestor, to Glorfindel’s left, had a shadowed look upon his face, and on the other side Lindir wore a look of abject sorrow. Êlminui finished softly, reading directly from the scroll, “We pray to the Star-Kindler that his soul finds peace and rebirth in Aman.” Elrond frowned as he caught the smallest flinch from his chief councilor at the words. He turned back, bidding that the runner that she find food and rest in the Last Homely House, and he dismissed the crowd. All would mourn this day.

He made his way over to his seneschal as the crowd dispersed and put a hand on his elbow. “Glorfindel, will you be well?” It must be horrible to hear that the very creature responsible for his violent death, long thought extinct, was returned from the deeps.

The big golden elf nodded, clearly steeling himself. “Yes, my lord, I will be. It was simply a shock. But of course, you will be depending on me for information if we must fight these things again! I will give it. But pray let me have tonight to work through the memories.”

Elrond bowed his head. “Yes, of course, Glorfindel. Do not worry; Lady Galadriel has informed me that this particular spirit is gone; you will not be called upon to return to your nightmares any time soon.” Glorfindel smiled weakly, bowed, and returned to the House without another word.  
  


\---  
  


Lunch proceeded somberly, with participants offering short stories and anecdotes of Gandalf. Even if some thought him odd, none had ever had a bad experience with the Maia. The stories illustrated an emotional man, comforting and bothersome in turns, ready at the drop of a coin to offer contradictory and mystifying advice. Many were cheered by the stories and the speaking of his name, and a night of tales and remembrance was promised to be scheduled a week later after an introductory period of mourning. Glorfindel, along with others who had known him well, was understandably absent.

In the middle of a particularly funny story concerning sheet music and potatoes, Lindir was interrupted by the clatter of Erestor’s fork dropping to his plate. The dark-haired elf wavered for a second, breath hitching, and then caught himself on the edge of the table and brought a hand up to his forehead.

Elrond frowned, and made to push his chair back and get up. “Erestor, you do not look well. Please allow me to accompany you to your rooms and look you over.”

The councilor shook his head jerkily and pushed his own chair out, placing his napkin next to his fallen fork and rising. “No, I thank you, I am alright. Pray continue; I will take my leave.” He turned away and walked to the end of the room and proceeded through the finely carved entrance arch before taking a right down the hall that led to his suite.

The table’s occupants stared after him worriedly as he left, and to dispel the awkward silence Bilbo launched into telling the story of Gandalf scolding Merry and Pippin at his birthday celebration.  
  


\--  
  


Elrond frowned. An odd noise was catching the edge of his hearing – but it was the middle of the night, and he was not aware of anyone else in this wing of the House. Erestor sometimes stayed up late with work, but the last he had seen of the elf was at lunch two days ago, and given the week of mourning many elves were staying in their rooms. He picked up a candle in its holder and pursued the noise – a wounded animal, perhaps, cowering in the dark. Nothing he could not take care of himself.

Allowing the flickering flame to light his path, he made his way quietly around a large shelf and stopped in shock. “Erestor? Is that you?” His councilor was kneeling on the ground in the darkness and devoid of all usual poise. His hands were pressed to his chest and he was taking great heaving gasps, seemingly unable to get enough air in his lungs. Even his eyes appeared wide and unfocused, his moment of uncertain health from the other day’s lunch magnified exponentially. He had no candle with him – or if he did, it had gone out.

Elrond moved quickly towards him, placing the candleholder on a table and bending down to assess more clearly what was wrong. There was no visible wound – could this be a delayed reaction to learning of a friend’s death? No, none of this matched symptoms of fading. Poisoning, maybe? He grasped lean shoulders.

“Erestor?” he asked again. “Erestor, are you with me? I need to know what is wrong in order to help.”

His friend did not respond. Elrond was not sure if he was even hearing his words. He pressed two fingers to Erestor’s pulse, attempting to discern if a poison could be affecting his heart rate, and found nothing out of the ordinary. A panic attack? Emotional disturbance? He reached down and laid a hand over Erestor’s where they were pressed against his chest over fine robes. At once, a flood of pain and emotion swept into his mind, and he jerked back out of contact, breathing heavily.

But that seemed to have gotten Erestor’s attention, as his eyes focused and his breathing calmed slightly. He stared at Elrond, taking deep breaths, and then closed his eyes and let his body go loose. They sat facing each other for several minutes, breathing in tandem, as Elrond waited for the older elf to regain his bearings – and, truthfully, to regain them himself. He rarely used any form of ósanwe in treatment and had not been expecting such a flood of feeling. Finally, Erestor spoke.

“I am sorry that you had to see that. I- thank you for pulling me out of it.”

Elrond frowned, leaning forward. “Erestor, what is afflicting you? Is this about Olórin?” Elves sometimes faded after receiving traumatic news, but such tended to be the stuff of stories rather than reality.

Erestor looked away in dismay. After a moment, he brought his hand up and rubbed at his brow, and then moved it to his chest again with a gasp. Elrond watched as his friend attempted to modulate his breathing and wished he could help.

After several deep breaths, something seemed to release Erestor’s tension and he slumped. “Are you familiar with the first oath and its takers, at least in the form of a story?”

Relieved to finally be getting an explanation – he suspected Erestor had been suffering since the lunch and was rather displeased he hadn’t been requested – Elrond nodded. “Of course. I was raised by the children of Fëanor himself; there was no escaping the knowledge.” He paused, connecting the information and grasping the implication in Erestor’s words. “Are you-? Oh, do not tell me that Olórin was yours!” Erestor nodded stiffly, still looking away, and Elrond sighed. “Ai Elbereth, I am sorry. I wish you had told me, but I understand that you do not want it to be common knowledge.” He paused respectfully, and then asked, “You are suffering from his death, then? Is it a backlash on your soul, or something similar?”

Erestor shook his head. “It is knowledge faded out of memory, and I am content with that.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “No, what is happening now is not grief, and do not be angry with me for not telling you earlier, please! But as a Maia, Olórin is not entirely dead or gone from this world. I felt the moment he passed from life, but we have been bonded since his conception. I feel all of the children I have ever given life to, whether they are still part of it or not. The problem – the problem now is that – apparently, “ he took a deep breath, exasperation coloring his voice through the exhaustion.

“Eru has decreed that his existence is too important to fate for him to stay lost. Thus, Varda Elentari fell upon me in the _middle of the night_ with the news as well as the beginnings of enough power to resurrect his form!” Erestor breathed out, running a hand through his long bangs as the tension crept back into his form.

“She seems to have _forgotten_ that I am a mere _elf_ , and it has been a _very_ long time since any demands of this sort have been made upon me, and I am old and tired!” He was breathing hard again. Elrond watched him closely and saw that his eyes were running over the dark bookshelves surrounding them as if he could read the titles and was doing so to calm himself.

Well. If he was sworn to the Vala of light, then perhaps he could. Elrond certainly wouldn’t assume. But he was not sure how to fix the situation, and the - discomfort? Pain? - that Erestor was so obviously in. “I am both gladdened by this news and sorry that you are weighted with this burden, my friend. I would like to be able to help; is there anything that I can do?”

Erestor tilted his head down, allowing his hair to slide off of his shoulders and beginning to massage the back of his neck. Slightly muffled, he answered, “No, unfortunately. This really should not even be as bad as all that; this process is more about feeding power away than nurturing and growing something new. It is uncomfortable, but the problem lies in the fact that I have no warning for when it will occur. I can only hope that She does not see fit to call upon me in the middle of a meeting.” He groaned, able to imagine it all too well, and tilted his head back with a consternated laugh.

“Imagine! Me panting on the floor, Glorfindel all aflutter in worry; they will all think I am dying! We did not have these problems during the Darkness. I am glad the knowledge has faded, but it may make explanations rather awkward.” He took several deep breaths and then Elrond lent him the support of a hand to get up. He dusted off his knees and straightened up, rearranging his clothes until he appeared less like he had been rolling on the floor.

Elrond watched, still somewhat worried and unsure of the implications for the impending future. “Will you need me to make excuses? Do you know how long this will last? I can have food brought to your rooms, and I might as well attempt to mix you some pain medicine, or perhaps muscle relaxants…?”

Erestor huffed and waved him off as Elrond bent to pick up the candleholder from the side table nearby. “No, no, though food would be a boon. My work is already in my rooms; I will be simply be somewhat useless until this is over,” he laughed self-deprecatingly. “I don’t know how long – weeks, months? It had better not be ten years!”

He turned to look at the younger elf apologetically. “We tried all manner of medication in early years; while I trust that you have far more knowledge than we did, I can almost guarantee you that nothing will work. This is a matter of the soul that happens to affect the mind and body, not a symptom of something rooted in the latter.” He sighed, and they began walking down the hall towards the family wing of the House.

Elrond kept an eye on the way that Erestor was moving – he did not want a repeat of the dizziness of that lunch while Erestor remained standing and unsupported. He seemed to be alright, but he had looked so badly earlier in the library that it was hard to believe it would simply pass.

They proceeded quietly past the twins’ rooms and Glorfindel’s suite to Erestor’s door, and Elrond reminded him to call if he needed anything. Erestor nodded and bade him good-night, appreciative for the help but looking forward to the quiet. Once the lord of the house was gone, he closed the door and made a beeline for his large bed, falling despairingly into its comfort and curling up.

He had been so certain he was free of the oath. Varda had not so much as looked in his direction for six millennia. He knew, oh how he knew, that the oath required him to give himself unto her at any time she so chose, in this life or the next. But it had been so long that he had genuinely and contently believed it was all over; that she would never come to him again. That the only proof it had ever happened were his remaining children, only one of whom he saw at all regularly; his unfortunate ability to hear prayers to her; and his scorched, mostly useless day-eyesight. He had not been joking when he lamented to Elrond that she had forgotten he was a mere elf: she had done it before to disastrous consequence.

Erestor had agreed to take the oath because he felt responsible for the well-being of the people whom he had woken, the elves who had agreed to follow him merely because they resembled him. He wasn’t going to lead them, or make decisions about their future, but he could protect them.

He was still protecting them.

He groaned and grabbed the edge of his coverlet, pulling it over himself while he was still on top of it, and fell into an exhausted reverie fully clothed.

\----


	7. I cannot bear to have your hands leave me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finwë bares his soul to Aulë.
> 
> Featured characters: Finwë, Aulë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this chapter fits in after the opening scene in chapter 1
> 
> \- everything's consensual here but finwë does not display healthy emotional coping strategies about related aspects of his life and it’s, uh, kind of depressing at the end lol
> 
> \- (men, it’s okay to cry when ur in love with 3 different people and have everything you want and the world still sucks)
> 
> \- I currently have two and a half more chapters written so far; this AU is really the gift that keeps giving this holiday season

**Year 1470 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Four Valian months after Finwë receives the last letter calling him to the Halls of Aulë_ **

\---

The room around them was dark, lit only by the hot glow of candles that glittered and flickered from brass wall sconces. The bed they were on was magnificent; large enough for five and scattered with soft linens and woolen blankets. They had made a nest of it in the months that they had been deep within the mansions of the great smith.

Finwë arched his back and gasped, legs splayed, as Aulë settled between them and licked his way up the king’s neck. The Vala brought his singed, calloused hands under Finwë’s back and began kneading at the muscles, and Finwë thought he might just burst into sparks out of sheer pleasure.

Finwë treasured the times that Aulë called upon him, though they had been growing sparse as his Halls approached fullness. He yearned for the touch of the Vala and each time prayed that it would never end. “Is it wrong,” he asked suddenly, voice rough, “that I enjoy you so much when my friends are as good as torn apart by their lords? That I cannot bear to have your hands leave me whilst I am here?”

Aulë stilled and raised his head from a pectoral. Matter-of-factly, he said, “Your body requires it, king. It is no matter of shame, not when you are creating my children.” He frowned consideringly. “It is a matter of pride to me, and love, that you are comforted and supported by my presence. That my fellow lords may not act similarly is perhaps lamentable, but out of my control.” He reached down to grip Finwë gently and nuzzled his neck. “We are bound to each other, and as ever I accept you as you come.”

Finwë frowned, pursuing the thought despite the distracting touches between his legs. “No – no, you have taken the wrong meaning from my words, my lord. What I mean to say is that I do not merely need you; I crave you. It is not only my body acting in this. I have long since admitted to myself the truth of the thing; and that is that I want to be here, even more often than I am, and that – that I value my time with you-“ he broke off, panting, as Alue continued to work on his body – “just as I value Indis my wife, and exactly as I valued Miriel my wife before her!” He gasped out, agonized to admit it but feeling freer than he had in centuries for its reveal.

Aulë finally paused and lifted his head back up to stare at him. Finwë met his gaze as he caught his breath, understanding that his lover was finally listening. There was a long pause, in which Aulë soothingly patted his hip to show that he was considering the words that hung in the air. Finwë worried internally that he had said too much – that this would be the thing that Aulë could not forgive. It was against much of what the Valar had counseled, but Aulë had a direct link to Finwë’s emotions when they were connected like this. Surely he would know what a fundamental part of his nature he had just confessed to.

The Vala finally nodded his head. “I see.” He tapped a finger on Finwë’s hipbone. “Yes, I understand now. You crave touch, connection, contact; this was why you sought to marry your golden wife despite public outcry. You cannot be alone.” He ran a hot hand down Finwë’s leg and then slowly brought it up to his face and cradled his jaw. Finwë’s breath hitched.

“You have always been special, king. Your soul was attractive to me from the beginning; I chose you purposefully. You, and many of your oath-bound brethren, have always been different than the rest of your people. Collectively, you stand out. But you, _you_ stand out all the further, as if you are one with my heart’s fire. It is your soul that feels this yearning – and it was your soul that drew you to choose me as I did you.” He placed a solemn kiss on Finwë’s brow, lingering, and left a bright spot of power seeping in when he drew away.

A long moment passed as Finwë processed this. It was- it felt like absolution. He had never sought to keep secrets from his lord, but this had been his secret shame known to no one. He would never have let the words escape his lips, save for the fact that Fëanáro had revealed the oath to all Valinor. Finwë could not allow Aulë to go on without knowing his true depth of feeling - without understanding that he was so broken. Yet the Vala accepted this? This cursed knowledge? The need that kept him seeking out a warm body in his bed and a lover to whom to confide his thoughts and dreams, to make children with and succor?

He tossed his head, troubled, and pulled away from Aulë to sit up. The Vala moved with him, allowing him some space but offering support with a hand on his knee, keenly aware of his preferences. “My lord, I…”

The great red-headed god nodded softly, uncaring that their earlier passionate mood had fled the room. “Tell me.”

Finwë looked up at him and then to the hand on his knee as if drawing strength from the contact. “Fëanáro is turning the land against you, against all the Valar.” He watched Aulë nod in confirmation, no judgment on his face. “I cannot be angry, for his reasons are founded in true events - you yourself have admitted that other oath-takers are not often treated as I am, provided love or healing or relief in your arms. As King, I should not simply lie back in pleasure as others are mistreated and unheard. And yet!” He shook his head, looking wretched. “That is precisely what I am doing!”

Aulë immediately reached out to embrace him. “You are here because I demanded you here, king. They can bring nothing against you for this.”

But Finwë shook his head mournfully and moved out of his arms. “No, no, they can and must; yet they cannot for they do not know!” He gestured slightly wildly, trying to bring his point across. “They assume I am being mistreated like Ingwë, high in Taniquetil; and I admit to having implied as much to my son. I have… I have wriggled and squirmed and twisted my way out of fault, out of anything even close to implying that I like being here – I have lied and deceived. Not least to you,” he waved, indicating their conversation just past.

“My family and subjects _pity_ me my time here, lord, and distrust you for asking it of me. I am not strong enough to go out there and say, ‘no, I find it quite pleasing actually’; for it would make me and my fellows both feel all the worse, and yet here I am stewing in guilt either way! There is no victory here.” He brought his hands to his face, hiding his eyes though they were free of tears. “I am content to leave them to it so that I may enjoy this time with you, and when I leave I will follow my son and betray my loyalty to you, like as not, and know that I am a two-faced liar of a king.” He finished laying out his argument with finality, this new thesis somehow worse than his admission of willing, happy polyamory.

Aulë sighed, a long and low sound. “This has been eating at you.”

Finwë nodded and continued to hide his face.

The god made no noise for a long while, but Finwë could feel his eyes upon his form. Aulë was staid and fair; he never jumped to conclusions and aimed to hear all parts of a story before passing judgement. But what Finwë had admitted to was foul, and he was not sure what the response would be. Finally he looked up, seeking the answer on his lord’s face.

Aulë nodded approvingly, satisfied that his elven paramour would not hide from him. He picked Finwë up from the covers bodily and settled him on his lap so that they were chest-to-chest. He laid them both down, settling the king on top of himself for maximum contact. He had found that Finwë often subsided and found rest and peace more easily when seemingly glued to him, and it was clearly necessary at this moment. Once they were as close as could be, he began.

“We do not control the Eldar, though we have an influence over you which the Avari your cousins lack. Eru bade us long ago to accept that sentient creatures will diverge from our plans for them; you will find that some of us have taken this to heart more strongly than others. For my part, I have always enjoyed granting knowledge and skill to your people and letting them do with it what they will, though it may end cruelly for some in the future. Thus I cannot fault your son and his supporters – or you! – for your free will.”

He closed his burning-ember eyes and pressed Finwë ever more closely. “Knowing you - knowing the Ñoldor - has shown me that you deserve to fight for your freedoms, whatever you want them to be, without punishment or judgement. We exist to create and guide. Yet Manwë our leader has a firmer belief in what we are to do for you. Stricter ideas of guidance and protection. And just as I will not condemn you for following your family and fighting our reach, I will not condemn him for the decisions he makes. These ideological differences may divide us, but the oath we once swore decrees that we are each other’s, and I will answer if ever you call.”

He began running his hands through Finwë’s hair, taming the long black strands into a neat pile on his back that shimmered in the candlelight. The rocky walls seemed to close in about them as Aulë extended his power in a shimmering cloak. “As for your thoughts of shame and deceit: well, they are true, and you well know it. I cannot tell you they are false, for that would be a deceit on my part.”

He hummed, thinking. “I have no reason to call you before all Valinor and tell them you are here by your own willing agreement, but if pressed I would not lie. I enjoy you, Finwë, as your wives have and do, and I hope that you remember your children tho’ you see them but rarely. You are caught between two mad fires, in love with both and yet hiding something from each. That you have talked with me tonight is heartening; I hope that you will find some comfort in it within your mind. But I can provide nothing more.”

Finwë had been listening quietly, the physical contact reassuring him through the heavy conversation. But his heart was holding too much. Guilt, shame, pleasure, love, anxiety, and grief were swirling together at his core and forced him to finally release the tears that he had been holding back.

He cried quietly, understanding that Aulë was expecting him never to return after this child had been brought forth. Then he realized that the Vala was pressing soft power around his core to keep his negative – _filthy, corrupt, harmful_ – emotions away from the developing Maia, and felt that his tears might never stop. Why did Aulë even allow him into his bed, into his Creation? He was a flawed being and held enough negativity to feed an empire. He had brought his family into a golden cage, killed his wife, traumatized his son, lied to his people, lied to each of his queens and his lord, and still valued his own pleasure and public image over revealing the truth to his subjects. He was despicable. He should be deposed; Fëanáro would take his place and be a strong king unswayed by the constraints of the Valar.

 _And then,_ he thought with additional guilt, in a soft whisper deep inside- _then I can stay here forever and forget that anything else ever existed._

\--


	8. have you not seen the shadow of death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eöl chafes against Námo’s domain and loses herself because of it. At her execution, she encounters another oath-taker.  
> Gondolin falls; Rog destroys a Maia and Maeglin loses his chance at redemption. One of Námo’s Maiar makes an appearance at a moment of death.
> 
> Featured characters: Eöl, Rog, Maeglin  
> Secondary characters: Námo, Aredhel, Turgon, Glorfindel, Ecthelion, Penlod, Salgant, Duilin, Gostir, Idril, Tuor, Eärendil, Anguirel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -cw: violence (battle scenes)
> 
> \- this chapter is all about angry women. If you didn’t catch it in ch. 5 - eol is female, deal with it. (aredhel is trans. they’re lesbians, Harold.) rog, salgant, and duilin are female. mandos has no gender. jirt is rolling in his grave and I am laughing.
> 
> \- bolded passages are taken from The Silmarillion, Chapter 16: “Of Maeglin” and Chapter 23, “Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin”. I did reread through the more detailed Fall in the Book of Lost Tales, and as you will see I’ve chosen to use some of it (I mean, Rog doesn’t even appear in the published Silm, hello), ignore other parts, and shift around the precise timeline of Maeglin’s end. 
> 
> \- note on names in this series - some of them are drawn from the HoME, either from legit quenya or from jirt’s earlier language gnomish (ex. Rog/roka); others, I’ve put together according to the sindarin meanings (ex. Ecthelion, which is from æg “sharp” + thel “will” -> ecya “sharp” + thelma “will” altered with the common masc. suffix -o). Feel free to comment improved translations of any of the names I’ve used for this story! Almost every named character in this AU was invented by jirt (though some have been read out from between the lines) - I'm trying to make up as little as possible.
> 
> \- I’ve elected to use the more commonly known Sindarin names in the narrative for this chapter, but the Quenya-speaking characters will be using Quenya names in dialogue.
> 
> Quenya name guide:  
> Roka – Rog  
> Lómion – Maeglin  
> Laurë (Laurefindel) – Glorfindel  
> Ecya (Ecyathelmo) – Ecthelion  
> Angamando - Angband

**Sometime during the thirteenth century of the Years of the Trees**

**_The Second Age of the Chaining of Melkor; Doriath has not yet been established._ **

\--

Eöl eyed Námo distastefully from her spot on their throne. She lay across the rough-hewn obsidian with a casual slump, beams of grey light dappling across her face, and was cleaning under her nails with boredom. “Want me to fix that gate while I’m here?” she announced apropos of nothing, gesturing towards the monumental doors that spanned most of the wall and moved only to admit the newly dead. She cocked her head back and let it _thunk_ against the stone as she eyed the Vala.

Námo turned slowly from where they had been exiting the room and fixed her with a look. “That door is not broken,” they intoned, a hint of confusion coloring the normally flat sound.

“No,” Eöl declared. “It isn’t. But I rather feel like making it thus, so that I have an excuse to craft something more tasteful for the insipid souls that linger here. If I were stuck here permanently, I would want my jail to be brimming with statement. Power. Importance. This,” she gestured, “is _boring_. The only statement this makes is that it was once part of a larger rock.”

Námo ignored the complaint and walked toward her. She affixed them with a glare as they closed the distance and mounted the steps to tower over her. They kneeled down – almost gently, she thought – and then gave her no chance to react as they pressed a hand against her breast. A shudder overtook her as her body recognized and welcomed their cloying and desolate power. Her nostrils flared, but she maintained her indifferent stare.

They lingered only a second, merely checking on her condition before withdrawing and resuming their solemn exit. They were occupied with matters far greater than her, after all, and she knew it.

Eöl gave a great harsh laugh from the black throne. It was always this way – a thousand ideas besieged her consciousness while in Nan Elmoth; designs to think on and improve whilst cloistered in the Halls of Mandos. Every time, she made sure to memorize them in lists and prepare. Yet the second she arrived she would be unable to access her knowledge of them, unable to invent or draw or redesign - because the Halls were for death, not life.

The only creation that could take place here was the kind that the lord himself was involved with. She’d long known it, but he could never force her to accept the horrible lack. She refused to cease her attempts to destroy the limits placed on her by this haunted place.

Námo’s power followed her constantly, revealing death to her in all its forms, and had done so ever since their first joining under the oath. Nothing was novel about this place because she already held conversations with the dead on Endórë, courting spirits and laughing in the gloom. She could not control the Creation that took place here, but by Eru she _would_ control all that happened before and after.

She had already been able to twist and mold one of her spirit-children after birth into a willing vassal that protected her forest for nothing in return; her next plan, she faintly recalled, would be to convince one that their great fate lay in being bound to a weapon for her use. But as soon as the idea occurred to her, it dissolved, unable to withstand the stagnancy and un-change that the Halls embodied.

She sighed, annoyed, and leaned her head back to clunk on the obsidian again. It was so _boring_ here.

* * *

**Year 400 of the First Age**

**_The execution of Eöl Moriquendi_ **

_\----_

**Then Turgon sat in his high seat holding his staff of doom, and in a stern voice spoke: “I will not debate with you, Dark Elf. By the swords of the Noldor alone are your sunless woods defended. Your freedom to wander there wild you owe to my kin; and but for them long since you would have laboured in thraldom in the pits of Angband.”**

Eöl laughed, aggrieved. “I owe you and your kin nothing! You will not heed my words, and so I will tell you that my lands have ever been guarded by _my_ children only, who protect me from Angamando and your kin both! Have you not seen the shadow of Death that lies on me and on all that I touch?” she spat, shaking her head and tossing her cloak. Rog moved forward in a flash to restrain her. But she continued, heedless of the strong grip:

“Your sister came to me willingly for safety and company, and to keep her I gave her a child. Yet you hear in our lives only repugnance and worthlessness! You sit upon this high tower encircled by impossible mountains and yet seek to judge me? _Hah_! The only judge I have ever suffered is the Vala himself, and still never have I ever bowed my head!” Her eyes were wild and darker than the abyss. Turgon thought quietly that perhaps they were what Mandos itself looked like.

His lords, gathered in a semicircle around the room, stared openly. Penlod grimaced, easily seen given that he stood a head above the closest elves. Egalmoth seemed captivated, horrified and entranced in turns by her unapologetic vehemence. Glorfindel and Ecthelion looked at each other to exchange brief thoughts.

 _oath-taker?_ said Laurë worriedly, thinking of his own grandfather.

 _yes,_ replied Ecya with grim certainty.

Duilin shivered, overtaken by the crazed viciousness of this nís who was so independent and dark of nature that her own king refused to let her live too close to the Girdle. Salgant moved closer to her and extended a kind hand in comfort, which Duilin took immediately and squeezed.

Maeglin, hidden slightly behind Aredhel, looked like he was sickened by the scene. But she knew that the words rang true: her son might despise his other mother for the lack of care with which he was raised, but the concepts she espoused had always found a place in his heart. Perhaps if Eöl had not been so twisted by that foul oath….

Her eyes had been glued to her wife’s struggling body, nauseated by the scene, but a movement from the heavily muscled lord restraining Eöl caught her attention. Roka, Lord of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, looked bitter and angry. Aredhel’s heart fluttered in icy fear – for Eöl? For Rog? For herself, and her son? She was not sure, but it gripped her nonetheless. The emotion on Rog’s face was something beyond basic offense on Aredhel’s behalf. Did they know each other? She watched strong hands tighten, and Eöl finally broke off her tirade at Turgon to gasp in pain.

 _This is wretched,_ Rog thought as she applied force to still Eöl’s vitriol. _What is this cruel asymmetry_ , _that I the maddest of all the oath-takers must instead restrain my sworn sister who has gone mad instead? There is no path forward for her here but death, which has infested her very soul.._

Eöl stilled, and Rog cursed aloud, knowing somehow that her thoughts had made contact. The smaller elf turned awkwardly in her grasp and fixed her with a horrible look. It was in her wide eyes, pupils retracted; her unsettling smile; her open mind that pushed _bleak walls-stagnation-despair-boredom-uncaring-why won’t time pass-certainty-it doesn’t matter_ straight into Rog’s mind. She tried not to flinch, and managed to hide her reaction from her fellow Lords. But she felt bare and exposed before Eöl, who opened her mouth and spoke to her.

“Ever has it surrounded me, Roka; ever has it dogged me. I know where I am going, I know it like the back of my hand, and I know the kind of welcome that I will receive!” She laughed, and it was a jagged, broken, _pleased_ sort of sound that chilled Rog’s bones.

From up on the dais, Turgon let his staff hit the floor in a jarring sound that caught their attention and cut the awful noise off. He began, notes of finality in his tone as if his Sight had revealed something: “You have disturbed our peace and security and demonstrated only ill will towards the inhabitants of this fair city.” He stood up, asserting his great height and making her seem all the smaller. Rog, unable to process the emotions running through her aclutter, acted on instinct and dragged Eöl up by the arms so that she was facing him with a last shred of dignity. She let go and moved back, giving the woman space since she had calmed before the spectre of her impending doom. Turgon allowed it, and delivered his pronouncement.

**“‘And here I am King; and whether you will it or will it not, my doom is law. This choice only is given to you: to abide here, or to die here; and so also for your son.”**

**Then Eöl looked into the eyes of King Turgon, and [s]he was not daunted, but stood long without word or movement while a still silence fell upon the hall; and Aredhel was afraid, knowing that [s]he was perilous. Suddenly, swift as serpent, [s]he seized a javelin that [s]he held hid beneath h[er] cloak and cast it at Maeglin, crying: “The second choice I take and for my son also! You shall not hold what is mine!”**

* * *

**Year 510 of the First Age**

**_The Fall of Gondolin_ **

**_\--_ **

Rog panted, adjusting her grip on her hammer even as the blood coursed down her head and into her eye, which made her squint and rub at it angrily with one hand. “Lord Lómion, I see you there! Get over here!” she yelled. He turned immediately and ducked under a scything dragon wing to skid across blood-wet cobblestones to her side. “Lord Roka! How are you holding up?” he panted. They’d been fighting towards each other for hours and only just then had she finally caught sight of him; for his part, he was glad to see her breathing yet. The guilt that had been festering inside of him was stayed for a brief moment, until he caught sight of the dragon Gostir crushing a soldier in its great maw and immediately turning around to breathe fire on four more without breaking stride. He swallowed.

Rog swung around him and crushed an approaching skull with a shout before she answered, pulling him behind a building for a moment of peace. “We have to take out the dragon and this platoon, Lómion, or the level will fall quickly. I think I can deal with the creature on my own, but I need you to watch my back, and to direct the last of our people against these orcs. Will you help me?” she panted, giving him a choice even in this dire moment.

“On your own? Roka, are you insane? You may be strong, but that is a _Maia_ , and the strongest I have seen yet! How do you propose to accomplish that alone?!” He clapped a hand on her shoulder and drew her down, looking up into her eyes. “This had better not be a suicide plan,” he hissed, the thought settling uncomfortably on top of the knowledge that his own actions had brought these events about.

Before she could answer, they heard a loud _thud_ and cracks spidered out along the wall. They dove as one as far as they could out of the way, bringing them back in the fray and causing them to frantically move to avoid the ogre that had just brought down the building. They were immediately separated, Maeglin cursing all the while. Rog tended to take everything personally, and would likely aim for Gostir with or without his help.

In a lull a few minutes later did he find his third-in-command (his second had taken a wicked-looking knife to the lung hours earlier) and stabbed an orc that was aiming at her back. Relieved, he turned around only to find that the ogre from before had found her, and in the next second she was lost. He backed away and aimed for a knot of battle that was held still by several of Rog’s people. That looked safer.

From down the road, he could see Gostir’s horde, the smaller wingless dragons bred for war and death clamoring straight for the plaza. They were shrieking and biting, crushing with heavy feet and breathing out ice and fire and smog depending on the color of their scales. He felt cold and weary with fear even as his blood ran battle-hot in his veins.

In the distance to the other direction he saw balrogs, and knew that their lord, Gothmog, wrung from the very soul of one of Melkor’s greatest enemies, had been sent to war. Sauron had told him of these creations, and Maeglin had thought he understood what was coming – but he had no frame of reference for this. The full scale of power that was being brought to bear on this fair city, this white cage full of prisoners, was unimaginable.

His soul was pleased by its desecration, but his heart was screaming, and he let the agony power his body. He fought and fought with Rog’s people, the remnants of her soldiers caught up in a horrible bloody tide and eventually pushed beyond the broken gate.

And suddenly it seemed that the mire cleared and Maeglin had found his friend. Her dark skin was bleeding from deep slashes and mace-gouges on her torso and arms, and half her hair was singed off, an ear badly burnt in a twisted reflection of the chunks taken many years ago out of the other. She was breathing too heavily for him to be optimistic.

He reached out, worried nearly out of his mind. He was already half-decided to tell her to cut their losses and find Salgant and the Princess to escape. He gave into the desire and yelled into her scarred ear:

“Roka, you’re half-dead, and I am barely better! How on _Arda_ are we supposed to kill it like this! Even if we did, the smaller dragons are swarming toward us - we need to _retreat_!”

She swung at another orc, aim still perfect despite the shaking in her limbs, and turned to face him. The blood trailing the edge of her wide smile looked morbid. In his friend, all of a sudden, he saw the ghost of his crazed mother. And then she spoke:

“Once you know intimately how to create a Maia, Lómion,” she declared wrathfully, gloriously, “you learn also how destroy them.”

And she dove towards the dragon-spirit, heedless of the weapons coming her way, glowing like the very fires of Angamando itself. Somehow she made it across the green to face it; and somehow there was a moment of stillness that enabled her to drive her great hammer directly through its center, lodging disgustingly in its chest. Maeglin gaped, horrified, as the glow spread from Rog to her weapon and then to the creature itself, suffusing it and warping its form. It screamed - a long and deafening sound - and thrashed violently, slowly dissolving into ash, and the sound cut off once there was nothing left but a few sparks in the still air.

Rog stayed standing, facing the spot and swaying. Maeglin shouted out her name, panicked, clutching his sword Anguirel tightly and watching as she turned to look over her shoulder at him. Her face was filled with anger, more than he had ever seen before, and it was dawning on him finally that she had more reason to be angry than anyone had ever suspected.

For a moment he held her gaze. Then the light went out of her eyes and the strongest of the Ñoldor fell, the wounds delivered to her by the gauntlet of orcs and balrogs and a maleficent Maia more than her body could take.

Abandoning any hope of holding out, Maeglin fled back to the city, dodging and ducking under weapons and around wyrms as if Nessa herself was guiding him. He needed to get to Idril. She and her son needed to survive this. They deserved to leave this cage, this massacre, and find a purer world-

He rounded a corner near the battlements and ran into the woman herself, creating a mighty _clank_ as his sable plate met her dull mail. Her armor was only a little more pristine than his, and he despaired at the thought that she had been fighting as hard as he. At least the Elessar which he had given her still shone brightly upon her cloak.

“Princess! Please, you must leave; Lord Roka has fallen and the city is overrun, we were not able to hold-“

She interrupted him scornfully. “You! You! What have _you_ done to hold this city! I will not hear of escape from you, craven one!” She pushed him back with a strong arm and stepped forward to tower over him. “You swayed my father ill, and for all I know let the enemy into our home _yourself_! They have not yet made it to the highest levels, and yet you give up so easily, dark coward that you are?”

But he did not care about her insults at a time like this, not when the city was falling about them and she was in danger. “Itarillë! You _must leave!”_ He surged forward and grasped her arm, shaking it in an attempt to convey the necessity of his plea.

“ _You get your hands off of my wife!”_ Tuor shouted from across the wall, running toward them wearing a silver mail shirt and carrying the child Eärendil in his arms.

Maeglin saw red. He released Idril and pulled Anguirel from its sheath in a foul move full of dark promise. Tuor, as if suddenly realizing that he was carrying his son and had no easy way to draw his sword or defend, began backing up to the battlement, shielding the boy. Maeglin pursued, stalking him, in madness having become like the foul creatures that were doing the same to his kindred all around the city.

And then pain bloomed in his back, and looking down he realized that Idril’s sword had gone clear through his chest. He stood still, blinking in shock, and then she withdrew it with a jerk. Maeglin stumbled, trying to steady himself, and in his peripherals saw the couple come together at his side and exchange the child. He watched, vision hazing, blood dripping down his lips. Tuor said something, but he couldn’t pay attention. This Man had ruined everything. _Everything_.

He raised his sword and swung, charging with the last of his strength, but Tuor had the upper hand and was able to throw him in the air.

As his weak body crested the merlons, terror flashed through him; but instead of the dread fall there was only the sensation of darkness and safety, as if he was cradled under the trees of Nan Elmoth his home. Logically, he knew his body must be falling, but Anguirel in his hand was glowing and felt so comforting that he couldn’t bring himself to care. As he crashed into the rocks and his body broke upon the crags, he felt lips on his forehead and a cool embrace about his shoulders, and it kept him company until the end.

And so Lómion passed out of this world.

_**Tuor sought to rescue Idril from the sack of the city, but Maeglin had laid hands on her, and on Eärendil; and Tuor fought with Maeglin on the walls, and cast him far out, and his body as it fell smote the rocky slopes of Amon Gwareth thrice ere it pitched into the flames below.** _

\----


	9. he felt and could not contain the magnitude of her anguish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imin dies in dark water. Morwë swears the oath. Melkor is kind, but the form of the child reveals his true nature. Morwë destroys herself only to find that she cannot leave Ennor, and is forever drawn to his vile workings.  
> Sauron is quite literally haunted, and it is not only a pair of Hobbits who strike the final blow. 
> 
> Featured characters: Morwë, Elenwë, Melkor, Sauron  
> Secondary characters: Turgon, Ungoliant, Indis, Frodo, Gollum, Anguirel, Finwë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: metaphysical birth; canonical character death  
> \- Messing with the timeline a bit. The oath is made in YT 1104, when Ingwe, Finwë, and Elwë return to Cuiviénen from Valinor, and the Valar defeat Melkor around 1110.  
> \- yet more trans elves, enjoy  
> \- the bolded quote is from The Lord of the Rings, Book VI, chapter 3: “Mount Doom.”  
> \- i've gotten chapters 10-13 written, so this will be at least that long!
> 
> Name/word guide:
> 
> Melkor – Morgoth  
> Quendë – Elf  
> Ungweliantë – Ungoliant  
> Orodruin – Mount Doom  
> Sammath Naur – Cracks of Doom

**Year 1500 of the Years of the Trees**

**_The Crossing of the Helcaraxë_ **

**\---**

Imin had not Awoken calmly by the water’s edge, opening new eyes to the stars above as the stories told; she had emerged choking and spitting from the waters of the lake and almost drowned immediately. It seemed poetic that she would go out the same way, frozen to the bone as death embraced her in waters almost as shocking as those of her birth.

She had hoped to once again see the fair lands of the East, where she had lived in lovely darkness for nearly a century. To find Enel and Enelyë once more and maybe even see Morwë’s grave. There was so much she wanted to do - escape from under the grip of the Valar; help Finwë’s son avenge him; exert herself in battle and forget Ingwë’s treatment, which she was powerless to stop, and Indis her sister who was losing heart watching it; and protect her husband and daughter who insisted on following her father-in-law.

Instead, she died to the sound of her chosen name echoing from the cruel ice above.

_“Elenwë!”_

* * *

**Year 1104 of the Years of the Trees**

**_The year of oath-swearing_ **

**\----**

With her oath uttered and hanging in the air like dust in a still room, Morwë walked towards the darkest and handsomest Vala they had seen yet. She was intensely uncertain of her future; and yet sure that she was making the best choice for herself and her people.

Even if he took her away from here, the others had strong leadership. Nurwë and Finwë and Elwë were all able and confident – what did she contribute in comparison? She was a protector, a strong fighter and guard; this was merely a new dimension to her role as defender, and she was not so precious that the village could not spare her. The warped, murderous creatures that preyed upon their people would have even less of a foothold with this Vala on their side.

And Enel…he would live without her if he had to. They had no children to abandon, and with luck she would remain here like many of the others had. Even Eöl and Finwë, recently taken away to the Halls of their lords during their lying-in periods, had quickly returned afterwards.

The starlit grass laved at her bare calves as she made her way to his welcoming form. He was her size, a fact which alone displayed more consideration for the Quendi than any of his brethren. His kind smile too was reassuring, and the long fall of his black hair shimmered in the starlight. And his power was unmistakable.

She was feeling better and better about volunteering herself to Melkor in place of Imin, who had clearly had reservations about the prospect.

 _It would hardly have been fair that way,_ she thought happily, _as the Minyar are so few. We Tatyar are many, and I can be spared. Imin’s reluctance was not cowardice, but merely concern for his own ability to host these spirits. But I? I am strong. This Vala will see._

She stepped into the circle of his arms and pressed her hands to his chest. His own came around and pressed to hers, where she felt light like a spark touch her heart. She gasped, and he quickly took her hands in his.

“You sacrifice for your people, Morwë. In return, they will be part of my plans and workings in the future – I will not allow myself to ignore their plight. They will have all of my care, as you will. We will make wonders together, Quendë. This I swear to you.” His voice was soft but proud, and so confident that she could not help smiling.

Nothing about his pronouncement stood out, as she had listened in on several of the oaths that had already been made and each was tailored to its participants.

As one they closed their eyes, and in their clasped hands grew an unmistakable power. It wound its way through their arms and into their chests, surrounding the core of each and laying down a chain of rainbow light – how strange, that she could see it in her mind’s eye!

Once it felt secure, the power retreated, and she could feel the bond that now existed between them. They stepped apart, and in glee she looked back over her shoulder at Iminyë who had accompanied her to the field for support. She waved, and the golden nís smiled and nodded in reply.

Morwë laughed gladly, and then again in surprise as a deep shadow came out of the ground at Melkor’s feet and devoured them together, transporting them far away from the fair lands of Cuiviénen.

* * *

**Year 1106 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Two years after the last oath is sworn; four before before Melkor is imprisoned in Mandos_ **

\---

Melkor watched excitedly as Morwë panted heavily in his lap, finally too tired to scream. He fed her more power through a hand shoulder and wiped off her sweat with the other. She’d been in torment for days now trying to bring forth their first Maia from the depths of her heart – it had been two long years in the making, and Melkor was _ready_. He had _plans._ He would train this spirit to wreak destruction upon Arda and bring it all under his domain.

And with time, he hoped, Morwë’s soul would find it easier and easier to Create in this fashion. She had grown on him, and he saw her use.

He’d even allowed her to return to Cuiviénen briefly to assuage her people that she was well, but whispers were already growing. The fourteenth proper Vala to arrive for an oath, Nessa, had been greeted with the news that there already _were_ fourteen oaths, and had left worriedly without asking for an elf in order to convene in council with her brethren. She would probably convince one to swear to her soon, he thought, but no matter; he had what he wanted. Morwë could leave Utumno all she liked; she would not be able to resist his summons as long as she was alive, and she would not be easy to kill.

Just as the thought passed his mind, she gave a last heaving gasp and finally the Maia materialized in front of them. She passed out against his shoulder, and he let her rest while he inspected the product.

It was small. He chuckled, realizing that he had expected a fully formed Ainu out of all this, but it would grow in time. It had to.

It was dark, like him, but covered in bristles, and had many legs. He watched in pleased silence for long minutes as it attempted to move them, hitting itself more often than not. By the time Morwë finally surfaced from reverie with a groan, it had managed to balance itself on six, seven- eight! Eight legs. How interesting. A spider-spirit, perhaps?

“What _is_ that?!” Morwë asked, horrified.

Melkor turned his head to watch her with faint humor. “Our child! Does it not please you?”

He thought she would cling to his good mood and try to be positive, as was her wont, but she was paling rapidly. He frowned, displeased.

Though she was drained, Morwë gathered her strength and removed herself from his knees and the throne they sat on. Keeping the baby Maia in her sights, she skirted the edges of the hall and then fled through the door in the direction of her rooms. Melkor watched her go. What could she do?

He looked back at the Maia and shifted, crossing his legs and then leaning an elbow on his knee and cradling his chin. “You shall, I think, be _Ungweliantë_ in the language of your mother. I am your father, Melkor, mightiest of the Ainur, and you shall serve me forever,” he declared firmly.

“Keep in mind to treat your mother with care, as she is fragile, and wife to the elf that my own wished-for wife has similarly subjugated,” he proudly informed her.

Ungoliant chittered at him – he would have to learn the spider-language, if she was not interested in taking on an elven form – and then skittered out the door to follow in Morwë’s footsteps.

He leaned back, pleased. The Quendë would have to accept her Creation eventually. Soon, they would begin begetting another.

* * *

**Year 3019 of the Third Age**

**_End of the War of the Ring_ **

\--

Sauron paced, furious, his Eye facing the Black Gate and his hand on the palantír, sending directions to the captains among his armies. They _dared_ to challenge him! He should have expected this and yet could barely believe it. The tenacity of Men could never be overestimated. He would allow them to understand the full extent of his power and then snuff them out like the weakest candle.

He traced a familiar pattern upon Fëanáro’s seeing-stone and sent an order to his lieutenant Khamûl to wheel about the gate in a menacing flight-path. And then it felt like he was being watched, suddenly, though he knew that he was alone and there was no spark of life in the closest floors of Barad-Dûr.

He extended his senses and found something behind him – delightfully foul but totally unplanned. He whirled around gracelessly and found himself briefly disconcerted: for in front of him stood a figure that he had only seen in his Master’s mind. This was the elf Morwë, if he reckoned correctly; not in the flesh, for surely she had none, but in a pall of shadow, her form clear and flickering at the edges.

He formed a sword in his hand and slashed out, bisecting her shape at an angle – but to no avail, as the slit healed up with licking, smoky tendrils. She smiled and said something, but he couldn’t hear; her voice was lost to the ages. He slashed again, once, twice in a large X, and the shadows healed each break.

Her eyes were changing colors now, black to white in turns, darkness overtaking the sclera and then receding. Her hair was growing long, then burning to the scalp and beginning again. Her throat – her throat sprouted a great slash, over and over, healing and reforming. He couldn’t tell if it had been made with an elven sword or the wickedly sharp tip of Melkor’s mace Grond.

“Well, now,” he laughed, frenzied by the unexpected distraction in the middle of his war. “Aren’t you a pretty sight! Have you been haunting Endórë all these long Ages?”

She nodded sadly.

He cackled. “Are you held here by grief? Revenge? Ungoliant took it for you, you know. My master was ill-pleased.” He paused, his scientific mind mulling her existence over. “It cannot be the oath, can it? For to my knowledge none of your foolish brethren have been held back in such a way, and I made quite a study on it some time ago! If _only_ lovely Maitimo had left his fëa with us; I could have gone on forever-“ he cut himself off sharply, withdrawing from her aura and looking around desperately.

-no, _NO,_ he was losing time talking to her, as if she were sucking it away! The clouds had not been in that position a second ago!

He meant to focus out the window at Gate, but quickly something else caught his attention. Suddenly he could feel with his entire being that someone had- had _claimed_ him as their own- put his Ring on their finger – a dirty little _perian_ , a half-formed _grub!_

He changed tacks and ran to the other window, wrath and fear choking him. It opened south-west onto Orodruin, and he aimed his Eye straight and brought all his mind and power to bear on the shriveled little _weakling_ that dared to presume himself Sauron’s Master. His heart jerked as his ring changed hands a moment later – what _, another?!_ he thought raggedly, despair in his heart.

They were in the Sammath Naur, he could feel it; they were so close to his Doom and yet likely did not even realize the scale of age and might that they were trying to unmake. He screamed thoughts at his ring-wraiths, ordering them to converge, and yet knew in his heart that it was too late. They had slipped past his defenses, worms in the dirt, squirming to the heart of his kingdom and somehow knowing the methods with which to bring it down. Sauron felt madness take him.

Behind him, Morwë stood grim and unsheathed a sword-spirit whom she had long ago stolen and convinced to her dark purpose: Anguirel, who was the child of her friend and had traveled with her long through shadow and death. Rearing back, she prepared herself, and then ran Sauron through his core with the black blade.

For a moment, they were one, and he felt and could not contain the magnitude of her anguish. He screamed, consumed, and the tower shook around him; the Ring hit angry, welcoming magma, and all was dust.

Thousands of miles away, in a quiet chamber in the Halls of Mandos, Finwë’s spirit wailed _._

_-_

**_The Dark Lord was suddenly aware of [Frodo], and his Eye piercing all shadows looked across the plain to the door that he had made; and the magnitude of his own folly was revealed to him in a blinding flash, and all the devices of his enemies were at last laid bare. Then his wrath blazed in consuming flame, but his fear rose like a vast black smoke to choke him. For he knew his deadly peril and the thread upon which his doom now hung._ **

\--


	10. the pleasure of remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor and Elmo remember Gandalf after his death and discuss a difficult topic.   
> A thousand years earlier, Elmo presents herself to the new rulers of Lothlórien but does not find what she looks for. 
> 
> Featured characters: Erestor, Elmo, Celeborn, Galadriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: library books being defiled  
> \- this is kind of part 1 to a huge three-part chapter; it grew so big that I felt it was better to split it up. elmo's story will continue with the next chapter, where we will meet daeron, and then daeron's tale will continue into chapter 12. i hope you're excited!  
> \- the first scene here picks up in the middle of the second scene from chapter 6, in which Gandalf's death was announced to Rivendell.
> 
> Name guide:  
> Lórinand – Lothlórien   
> Olórin – Gandalf  
> Êlminui - 'first star' or 'first 'El''  
> Avanië - Evranîn  
> Nówë – Cïrdan

**Year 3019 of the Third Age**

**_The news of Gandalf’s fall has reached Rivendell_ **

\--

Erestor sat with Elmo at a metal table in the corner of Imladris’ hanging gardens. She’d chosen a spot for them on a small balcony that looked over an equally small waterfall where they were less likely to be interrupted while talking. Lindir especially was rather nosy, he thought, and wouldn’t quite understand what had happened.

Elmo had gone to wash up at Elrond’s offer and then come to find Erestor once she was clean and had a sandwich in her. He’d been standing in the garden staring at nothing in particular, and Elmo put an arm around him and drew him to a chair. She poured him some wine and let him settle into the chair. He rubbed his eyes and then took the glass with a nod.

His sister sighed. “I apologize for being the bearer of such bad news, my dear.”

He shook his head. “No, no, I had already felt it. It’s just – I didn’t think about it quite like _that_ , as if he were actually dead, and I didn’t know how it happened – a _Balrog,_ Elmo!” He sighed, looking lost.

“Yes, well, if it helps to put anything into perspective,” Elmo began, and oh no, Erestor knew where this was going. “I quite literally ran into a posse of orc-scouts on my way here from Lórinand and almost got disemboweled. Had to cauterize it on the fly. Danger’s everywhere.”

Erestor groaned. “No! No, that does not help!”

“Don’t worry,” she laughed. “I’m far too fast for any Third Age orc to get me. There’s a pretty pile of corpses burning somewhere on the east end of the Redhorn Gate.” She uncorked the bottle again and filled her own glass, settling in. “What was it that you felt, then, if not fire and flame?” she asked.

Erestor thought back, sipping the drink slowly. “It felt like a sudden absence – a space that you’re used to feeling full, simply disappears. An impression of pain. The bond is still there, but it’s gone gray.”

She tilted her head back. “That’s what my little bird felt like too, when he was killed. What made this different from the others?”

He looked over the waters, thinking. “He was filial, in his way. He came to visit Imladris relatively frequently and always made time to talk to me. So our bond is much stronger than the others. Inside,” his voice lowered and he gestured with a hand, “it looks like the very thickest yarn of a large web stretching out from me, save for the one that is Varda’s.”

“Well,” Elmo sighed. “I am sorry, then. I’ve met up with him several times on the road, and he’s always been a delight. I’ve never laughed so much.”

Erestor nodded. “Yes, many have found him rather vexing, myself included, but you _would_ get along with him.”

“I do enjoy being maddening on occasion,” his sister chuckled, and was silent for a while. “Well, you still have Ilmarë, right? You always liked her.”

He swirled his wine glumly. “Yes, of course. Another child on the other side of the world whom I never see.”

Elmo made a face. “Never, really? Mine often make time for little messages. It’s cute. Makes me feel loved, even if I barely know them.”

Erestor sighed and shook his head. “No, Varda tends to keep hers close. I only had them here for their growing stages; even Olórin went off rather immediately after his growth stopped. I only formed a relationship with him as an adult after his return in the Second Age, which was… well. Both a little painful and quite nice, I suppose.”

They sat in silence for a while, Erestor taking comfort from her calm strength. Whatever happened, he had always been sure that she would be there for him, if he needed. They had begun life together and they would either die or sail west in the same way. Their spouses were long gone, dead before the Sun. He had no elven children, and Elmo’s descendants were barely on speaking terms with her. As ever, he was glad that no matter how far her wandering took her - she always returned to him.

Though not always under the same name. “I can’t believe you’re still going by Êlminui, by the way. Rúmil would hit you for it.”

She laughed gaily. “It’s a terrible pun, isn’t it!” Erestor shook his head, hiding his smile with his glass as he took a sip.

Elmo leaned back and took in the view, stretching. “I have considered trying to switch back, but can you imagine? I think I’ve been using it for two Ages now, and Doriath was barely destroyed before people began forgetting that two-syllable names existed and insisting it must just be a nickname. If I started to use my proper one again, now that Doriath is truly a legend? Eru, I’m not even sure people would believe I was from Cuiviénen. Galion keeps telling me how young and foolish I am,” she rolled her eyes, taking a sip, “which, yes, I definitely am a bit of a brick when it comes to battle strategy and avoiding assaults on the road, but I would love to tell him it’s actually senility rather than inexperience!” she chortled.

Erestor eyed her. It was true; she looked like a sprightly young message-runner of the kind born in Lothlórien. His own eyes, he knew, had faint lines underneath that made his glare appear all the sharper. People never told him he looked young. Most of the oath-takers had lost any appearance of youth quickly. But Elmo, for all her injuries and history of physical toil, looked nearly like Legolas, King Thranduil’s spry and youthful son who was at this moment on the Quest. She had a wicked scar across her jaw, but it was normally obscured by a cloth mask that covered the lower half of her face. He could see why the steward Galion mistook her for a stripling.

He laughed softly. “It’s probably your personality, _Êlminui_ ; you’re far too spirited for a Waker! Think - he only has Nówë for comparison nowadays, and that one’s greatest joy in life comes from sitting on the beach meditating. And occasionally braiding his beard in new patterns, I suppose.”

“Yes, it’s rather unfair that he was so maddeningly adventurous during the Dark and then never did anything interesting under the Sun – we can hardly tell anyone the stories, for they’d never believe it. He was in his third cycle of life already by the time the turning of the Age, I think!”

“Whereas you never left your first, apparently,” Erestor retorted.

Elmo smiled wistfully. “I’ve wondered about that, you know.” She paused, rocking her glass and watching the liquid tilt. “If the libido is supposed to be what defines our second cycle, then it makes sense that I never entered it, even though I did birth a son. Eöl always looked young too, you know, despite all the trouble with Mandos.” She paused, considering. “It would make sense, in a tragic sort of way. Stuck forever in childhood because we never wanted to do the thing that makes adults what they are.”

Erestor frowned and leaned forward to look at her. “Elmo, that’s horrible. When on Arda did that come to mind?”

She met his gaze. “Honestly?” He nodded, and she fidgeted with her glass. “After the head injury. When I was stuck in Doriath and couldn’t make a memory to save my life.” He watched her gnaw at her lip, nervous. “I don’t know if I ever told you, since Avanië was the one I saw the most at that point, but I actually remembered most things quite well after the first few years. It was only Galadhon that I couldn’t seem to make memories about. I kept writing things down, the interactions we had – he was introduced to me over and over – and eventually I asked them to stop because it was hurting him so badly.”

“And I wondered. If maybe something bigger was preventing me from knowing him as a son. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to have had a child. Which is stupid, _I know_ , because of Nessa; I’d already made several children. But I was able to remember them, of course; they were from before the head injury.” She sighed.

“I thought that maybe I was never supposed to make a child the normal way with Denethor, without having experienced sexual desire or being properly married like a normal Quendi.” Erestor stared, but she went on. “And then to see Eöl go mad the way she did - for _her_ only elven child to be tortured and vilified -” she broke off heavily.

Sensing she was done, Erestor quickly got up from the chair and pulled her out of hers, embracing her as tightly as he could. “Oh, _Elmo._ ” They stayed standing, wrapped together for long minutes, as she buried her head into his neck. It was slightly awkward given that she was so much taller than he was, but he readjusted his collar to give her a softer surface. She did not cry, but closed her eyes and sighed.

Eventually, she pulled away, and he grasped her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “I don’t know if that’s true, Elmo. It might be. You know as well as I do that the Valar made decisions for us that we disagreed with and chafe under even today. But you should also remember that we _disagreed with them._ Every soul starts whole and beautiful, and you knew that you weren’t interested in marriage before the oath was ever made. You were _already_ an adult. If the Valar tampered with your memories as some twisted sort of punishment, that is _not your fault._ ” He stepped back to give her some room and sat back down in his chair.

He could, unfortunately, imagine that Nessa had done it to make Elmo focus only on their children. He well recalled that the only harm forbidden to their lords had been the physical. Those two did not have a deep bond, like Ulmo and Nówe; Nessa would not have thought twice about reaching in and _twisting._

Elmo sat back down as well and leaned her forehead in her hands. “Eru, look at us. Here to drink and talk about your favorite kid, and we get all serious!”

Her brother glared - “ _Elmo_.” – and she relented. “Yes, alright, I’ll tell myself what you’ve told me and see if it makes a difference. May take a while. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a-“

“-bit of a brick, yes, you’ve said,” interrupted Erestor. “You’re brilliant, Elmo, and one day I’ll make you see that your only value does not lie in your muscles.”

Elmo exhaled heavily, knowing that argument was fruitless, and poured herself more wine. She held the glass up in the air and toasted. “To Olórin, and may he come back to you once he is reborn, for your bond transcends time and place, and he is the child of your heart. And also to Morwë and Galadhon, for they are in my thoughts always. May they rest in peace, untrammeled by the whims of others.”

“Beautifully phrased,” Erestor choked out, and cleared his throat. “Thank you. To Galadhon, the son you wish you had known. To Morwë, my dearest wife whose idiosyncrasies I miss every day. And to Olórin, a mad scamp who stepped on my robes daily as a child and then proceeded to do the exact same thing ‘on accident’ the first time I met him as an adult, in front of the entire Hall of Fire. Elrond thought I was going to poison him in his sleep for it.” He laughed, his grief mixing with the pleasure of remembrance.

“If only you could tell that story tonight!” joked Elmo, knowing well that neither of them actually wanted anyone to know the basis of that relationship. The identities of the oath-takers had been common knowledge in Doriath and Ossiriand, but they had only survived so long by remaining unmemorable in the history books.

In one case, Erestor knew, they had purposefully altered said books, as he had smudged out the word “Erestor” from the sentence about his name change in every copy of the _Quenta Silmarillion_ that the library in Lindon had collected. He had done it for Elenwë as well, but in reverse, adding a ‘ _yë’_ next to every mention of Imin. The manuscripts were so marked up with changes and edits anyway; he was merely correcting an error for her.

They sat for a while and finished their drinks, enjoying the breeze, lost in their thoughts of the past. Neither of them was disposed to romanticizing times long gone, but he felt that he could make an exception in Olórin’s case, and Elmo didn’t often talk about her son.

Eventually their quiet was interrupted as a young elf hurried through the garden towards them. “Master Erestor; Êlminui; lunch will be served shortly, if you please.” Erestor nodded his assent at her and she promptly turned around to find the next set of elves on her list, disappearing from sight.

Elmo reached over to gather their glasses and Erestor picked up the bottle and corked it. With his free hand he reached out and caught her sleeve as she made to walk away. He pulled her close and laid a kiss on her cheek, resting his forehead on hers afterward. “Thank you, Elmo. You grant me strength.”

“And you to me, always,” she replied softly. She kissed his cheek back and then parted, making her way down a path around the bushes to the door. She called back, “I won’t worry if you aren’t at lunch, dearest one, but please do not wallow too terribly.”

Erestor smiled and shook his head. “No, I will come. I would very much like to hear what Olórin got up to with others when I was not around, after all.”

And together they left the garden.

* * *

**Year 1982 of the Third Age**

**_One year after Amroth and Nimrodel departed; Celeborn and Galadriel have taken over the rule of Lothlórien_ **

\--

Elmo walked forward and bowed, presenting herself and several bundles of letters for the rulers’ perusal with her traveling leathers rustling. “It is a pleasure to officially meet with you both. I am called Elmo, as you may know; I most often run between Imladris and the Greenwood, but occasionally make trips to here to Lórinand and to Mithlond also.” She looked up hopefully.

Celeborn sent a thought to his wife; _ah yes, this is Êlminui the courier who Amdir and Elrond both trust; Nimrodel said also that she had been a scout in times of war; I think she may be Silvan despite her name._

 _Calling this place Lórinand,_ _she is either Silvan or highly respectful,_ Galadriel returned, _either of which is welcome to us._ _I think also that we have met her before, possibly in Imladris. She seems familiar_.

 _She does indeed,_ Celeborn agreed, _though I cannot place her. The mask hardly helps, but we should not ask her to remove it._

Out loud, his wife said:

“We welcome you, Elmo, and pray that you will continue running the routes safely for the benefit of our people. Please let a March-warden know at any time if you encounter trouble on the road that must be dealt with. I would prefer your path be as unfettered as possible.”

Celeborn took up the thread. “We hear that you have been a war-scout in the past; would you be willing to once day take that position again if it is asked of you, or do you have stronger ties to another realm?”

Elmo looked surprised – something they said was not quite what she had expected. But she recovered hastily and said, “Yes, of course. I am swift over land, as you might expect given my occupation!” She laughed awkwardly. “I have ties to all of the major elven realms, but no particular contract as I prefer to stay on my feet. I will scout for whichever realm asks me first, I suppose. You see war on the horizon, Lady Galadriel?” she asked worriedly.

Galadriel shifted. “As you know, something awoke not two years ago in Moria, and we are neighbors with that land. I do not foresee strife approaching, but it is good to be prepared.”

“Indeed!” Elmo said. “Well. I will try to be so, and will naturally inform your March-wardens of anything amiss. Thank you.” She bowed again, and after a pause in which it seemed that she might say something, instead left quietly to take her parcels to the steward.

\----


	11. our freedoms were preserved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the Mereth Aderthad and spirits are high. Elmo has found Daeron and Mablung in the camp, and with input from Maglor and Finrod they make a decision about the kinslayers.  
> Centuries later, Elmo chokes near to death on scorching ash and wakes up in the halls of Nessa.
> 
> Featured characters: Daeron, Elmo, Mablung, Nessa  
> Secondary characters: Maglor, Finrod, Estë, one of Nessa’s Maiar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: a kind of panic attack occurs in this chapter (second scene), though it's partially brought on by environmental factors
> 
> \- happy mereth aderthad & happy new year! may 2021 be a year of real and lasting change in the world.
> 
> \- daeron is (hopefully obviously) not lusting over luthien in this AU. he is still absolutely besotted though.
> 
> \- an OC appears. my apologies; jirt only listed maiar for some of the valar, so I am resorting to creative solutions. magical weapons? they’re maiar now. impressive magical creatures? great, they’re maiar. might start defaulting to magical jewelry soon. sadly, nessa doesn’t have any listed, so I made one up and have decided that beleg’s magical arrow dailir is one of hers too. please send me suggestions if you have others!
> 
> \- is elmo’s mask a result of the author projecting? you bet your butt. masks are sexy and I hope y’all are wearing ‘em
> 
> Quenya name guide:
> 
> Kanafinwë Macalaurë = Maglor  
> Elwë = Elu Thingol  
> Melyanna = Melian  
> Avanië = Evranîn  
> Aiwë = little bird

**Year 21 of the First Age**

**_The Feast of Reuniting_ **

\--

It was a gorgeous morning; the sun shone, the birds sang, and almost every elf in the camp was suffering an enormous hangover.

One nér in particular moaned and threw his arms up dramatically from where he was situated slumped over a cleared-off feasting table. “You don’t _understand_ , Elmo! He’s _amazing_! I don’t know how I’ll survive!”

The nís, seated casually facing outward with her back pressed against the table edge, snorted into her tankard. “You may _not_ , if he decides you’ve erred and need a good slaying.”

Daeron whimpered, face pressed to the wood. “I’m pretty sure that’s what he did last night,” he sighed lustily, clearly replaying the events in his head.

Elmo eyed him, committed to never understanding what the hell other elves saw in each other. “Mh-hmm,” she agreed noncommittally. “So happy for you.”

Daeron rolled his head to the side and glared at her. “I can’t believe you two. No sympathy!” He sat up and turned to Mablung, who was sitting across from them, and thrust out a finger. “Surely you enjoyed yourself last night! I saw you go off with-”

Quick as an asp, Mablung had his hand pressed to Daeron’s mouth. “No.” The silver-haired elf let out a great gusty breath and rolled his eyes. He shoved away the hand and instead continued extolling Kanafinwë Macalaurë’s many virtues.

Elmo interrupted him with a laugh and swatted him. “That is just a list of his body parts, honey, did you actually _talk_ to him at all?”

“We sang!” the bard protested. Now it was Mablung’s turn to roll his eyes and pull over a plate of eggs, eager for an excuse to ignore him.

Elmo took a deep breath and turned around to steal a sausage. “That doesn’t _count_ , dear, you know that. But I suppose I haven’t asked whether you intend to marry him or just lay him while we’re here?” She bit into the meat and watched him expectantly.

Daeron sighed. “No, I know it’s not going to go anywhere. Really, Elmo, let me have my momentary paradise. Time doesn’t exist here. Elwë won’t know who I lie with, talk to, or the dirty songs I’ll be passing on to all the Ñoldor. And Mablung _won’t tell him,_ will you, Captain.” He eyed the other elf, who nodded absently. “Really, you had the best idea to leave before the Girdle went up. You’d not believe the effort it took to gain permission for this adventure,” he groused.

“No, I can believe it,” Elmo replied, nodding. “ _You’d_ not believe the shouting match we had when I told him I refused to live in the city anymore, and then the one right after that when he realized I wanted to leave Doriath entirely. He was absolutely livid about it. As if I _ever_ would have been content to be girdled! He barely lets Mablung out as it is,” she complained, titling her head at the elf in question. “Isolationist asshole. Ossiriand is much nicer. Nobody’s trying to collar me here.”

Daeron looked at her flatly. “Probably because nobody here had to nurse you back to health for a hundred and fifty years after you took on too many orcs at once and couldn’t remember your own name.”

“Excuse _you_ ,” Elmo protested. “We hardly could have avoided that battle; Morgoth was letting loose for the first time in most of an Age and was aiming right for us. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not take a mace to the head, I think,” contributed Mablung crassly from the middle of a sausage. “That would have helped.” Elmo hissed at him wordlessly, the scar on her jaw twisting.

Daeron picked up his tankard and took a long draw before setting it down. “Really though, besides this madness about closing our borders, he’s relaxed quite a bit. He would never have let us come here before the Girdle," he said contemplatively.

"It’s calmed him. Councils are only about internal affairs now, Lúthien says, so as stupid as it is they get a lot more done and fewer people are complaining. He thinks that’s a sign that this is what we’ve needed all along." Daeron shook his head disdainfully, but then his eyes lit up as he continued. "Melyanna told me that he actually started an argument with her last year – I was so proud! - asking why she didn’t set it down earlier, if these were the benefits. Of course, he’s ignoring that she can see fate and whatnot, but....” he shrugged.

Elmo goggled. “He actually _argued_ with her? I don’t believe it.”

Daeron laughed. “Truly! Our resident love-stricken swears-he’s-not-enchanted husband actually started an argument. I’d wonder if Melyanna’s power was slipping, except that I can feel it,” he tapped his heart, “and it’s the same as ever. Maybe she’ll mellow out a bit and let him tell her what to do in another few millennia.”

Mablung eyed the other two, uncomfortable with the direction the discussion was going. “You do realize how incredibly bad this sounds.”

They looked at him. “Well, sure,” Elmo said reasonably. “It’s horrible. But we’ve lived with it for so long, and none of the Valar cared to stop her at any point, so what can we do? She’s not actively torturing him.”

Daeron nodded forlornly. “My own firstborn, reduced to such incredible lust and longing that she had to entrap our brother into an illusionary maze-“

“-and give him a magical child-“ Elmo inserted.

“-and give him a child, a girl of the very nightingales herself, my dearest grandchild from whom I learn new things every day…” Daeron continued unhindered, almost dreamily, and then changed tones. “Yes, of course we hate it. It’s Morwë all over again, except that Elwë hasn’t yet realized that what she’s doing is horrible. I tried to stop her when they first returned, but she batted me aside with nary a blink and told me that it wasn’t my place to intervene.”

“They were _fated._ ” Elmo muttered into her tankard.

“They were _fated_ , and ' _their love is stronger than any attempt to break it'_ , yes. Thank you, Elmo,” Daeron finished and slumped. “Can I just go back to Maglor now and find an unoccupied corner, or do we actually need to do things today?”

Elmo found another sausage. “I don’t think we have anything to do today, no. Be sure not to accidentally make a baby – wouldn’t want to get injured and then be unable to care for it for years, leading to its kin-slayer father training it up.”

Daeron sighed. “ _Sorry,_ okay? Anyway, he doesn’t have the right equipment for that, and you know I don’t. Pretty sure I’m in the clear on accidental baby acquisition with this one.”

“I try not to presume,” said Elmo distractedly. “Have fun robbing the cradle.”

Daeron whined and swatted at her. “Stop it! I only have so many choices. You want me to go back to Doriath and pick someone who I either know way too well or have seen in diapers?!”

“Knowing someone well is _usually_ a prerequisite of having sex with them,” Mablung put in, and bent down to pull out his knife and a polishing rag from his boot. Elmo snorted.

There was a comfortable silence for a few minutes as the camp started to come to life around them. Pots banged, buckets slopped water, and the smells of food cooking increased. Two elves joined them suddenly, putting plates down on the table and sliding onto the bench.

“Hello again! We had an excellent time talking last night; thought we might as well catch up this morning,” Finrod said, slinging an arm around Maglor. “And I hear this one quite enjoyed himself as well! Which one of you was it?” Maglor rolled his eyes. “Ah yes, the minstrel, _obviously,_ my cousin can hardly resist taking down the competition,” he winked, smiling wide and jostling his shoulders as he picked up a fork with the other hand.

Maglor cast an unamused look at him and said to Daeron, “You have my _full_ permission to remove me from this table at any time.”

Daeron laughed heartily. “I’ll take that under consideration! You have good timing; we were just talking about you.”

Finrod perked up. “Oh yes? What about? Our stunning good looks, or our delicious political acumen?” He shoved an egg into his mouth and chewed, eyes on them.

Elmo leaned forward, elbow on the table, and leveled them with a hard stare. “A little bird let it slip last night that you killed other elves on your way out of Valinor, _friends_.”

Maglor and Finrod both stilled in shock, the gold one actually dropping his fork with a _clack_. They watched Elmo, eyes wide, and she wasn’t sure if they were breathing at all.

She sighed. That had worked a little too well. “Oh Eru, go ahead and relax a little, why don’t you,” she waved at them. Naturally, they didn’t move. _Good instincts on the pair of them,_ she thought.

She shifted her weight and clasped her hands together on top of the table calmly to deliver the preliminary decision the three of them had previously discussed. “We aren’t happy to hear of it, or to know that you weren’t going to tell us. But it sounds like there are some powerful forces at work – my child mentioned a Doom, soul-jewels, and most damningly, Melkor himself – so it sounds like the Valar have once again _well_ and truly fucked up the Quendi. We’d like the whole story, please.”

Mablung sheathed the knife he had been polishing and added, “And if you hide nothing - _and_ manage to convince us that it won’t be happening again on this side of the ocean - we will consider forgetting to mention it to Lord Elwë.”

Maglor gaped. “You would hide this from your liege-lord?”

Daeron responded, quietly, “We would hide a great deal from him if it meant that our freedoms were preserved. He is swayed by a Maia’s love-enchantment and does not react properly to news of the outer kingdoms.”

Maglor and Finrod looked to each other and then back at him, steeling themselves and already wondering how much they would be able to hold back.

They began, giving voice to an explanation both complete and persuasive enough to hold back the news for another fifty years.

At the end of it, Elmo sighed. “I’m honestly not sure which I prefer – a brother lost to a deceitful Maia for eternity with madness slowly closing in, or a brother bound to a Vala and certain to resurrect, killed by an elf. Huh.”

Daeron blinked. “You’re telling _me_.” He zeroed back in on Maglor. “Wait - what do you mean, ‘ _you didn’t know about the oath until a few years ago’_?!”

* * *

**Year 567 of the First Age**

**_During the War of Wrath_ **

**_\---_ **

Her breath felt like it was burning her throat; hot ash had gone up her nose; fire was stinging her eyes, and she was _choking_. She couldn’t get air. Her hands clawed at the dusty, barren ground. How horrible would it be to die after all this, after everything she’d survived, in the middle of nowhere when she wasn’t even under attack? She tried to wheeze, but her lungs wouldn’t take anything in. Her vision crumbled and everything went dark with finality.

-

Elmo woke up. This surprised her, considering that the last thing she remembered was dying midway across the Anfauglith. She took an experimental breath and it promptly turned into a wheeze.

Well, at least she could do that now. She felt up her throat, almost expecting to feel burn scars, but the skin was smooth. She stared at her hand for a minute, confused, and then put it back down next to her. This ceiling wasn’t familiar. Actually, the fact that she was under a ceiling at _all_ was rather strange. She’d been living out of tents for nearly two decades at this point, fighting in the largest, most horrible war yet.

Collecting herself and realizing that she was unclothed, she sat up slowly and swung her legs off the bed, levering herself up. Everything appeared to be working. Her lungs still felt like they were singed and she might start coughing up charcoal, but as long as she didn’t get her heart rate up she might be alright. The only thing in the room was the bed that she sat on; the lack of provided clothes was a little odd, but she was perfectly comfortable wandering around naked if need be.

She left the room on bare feet and entered a long hallway, constructed entirely of trees and hung with wisteria. Looking down to the end, she saw a delicate throne and froze. This – she should have recognized this.

This was Nessa’s hall. She hadn’t been here since before the injury. She’d thought about it, vaguely, and supposed that she had assumed that the Lady no longer wanted her broken body. Maybe Nessa didn’t like scars.

But she was here now, and standing around waiting wouldn’t get her anywhere.

She took a deep breath and forced her legs to move. Nessa had grown a branch of blue flowers in a trail to indicate the direction that she should go once she woke up – it was both familiar and calming, a little piece of security that meant she wouldn’t have to make a decision about her next move. She wasn’t good at decisions.

Elmo followed the spots of pale blue along the wall until she heard voices, and she arrived at an open archway to see her lady Nessa in conversion with Estë, both garbed in their fana for her. She bowed, sure they had sensed her coming, and waited. A beautiful set of wall sconces surrounded the room, brightening it with flickering purple flames that gave off a pale grey smoke.

It took them only a minute to finish talking, and then they turned to her. Nessa gestured for her to come close, and she did. The Vala brought hands to her throat and face, running them over the skin, and then brought them to rest on her waist. “I am sure you were surprised to wake up here, child.”

Elmo nodded. _How?_ she asked mentally.

“Your little bird brought you, my dear. You must thank him,” she said, stroking her hip. “Your body was in terrible condition. I was forced to request Estë’s aid in healing you. I wish you would not put yourself in such situations.”

Estë spoke up. “It was no trouble, of course, but Avanië will not be happy to hear that you sustained injury again.”

Elmo turned to the other Vala but spoke to them both. _Avanië is fighting on the battlefield, my lady, with the Ńoldorin host; she has seen far worse than this lately. I am a scout and messenger only and experience relative safety - I did not expect to find injury from running across the plain,_ she concluded. _Thank you for your healing._

Estë shook her head. “It felt like a dragon had breathed down your throat, child; you are lucky to have survived. What-ever you were doing, I would not try to repeat it, no matter how important your mission.”

Elmo nodded, and Estë’s form wavered and disappeared. Nessa looked at her for a minute and then continued moving her hands over Elmo’s form, palming over her breasts and belly especially. “You become injured far too often, Elmo.”

She sighed. _I run and fight for my living, Nessa, you know this. I did not agree to abandon my life among the Quendi when I swore to you._

The Vala hummed. “Indeed I know this. Yet I wish that you had done so, for your pain is something so easily prevented.”

Elmo frowned. The air felt thin all of a sudden. _My pain is neither needless nor useless. I fight to protect others. I run so that they may know their families are safe, and also so that commanders have access to important tactical information and can exchange plans for the defeat of Melkor. I am the fastest we have. I do not regret any of it._

“Even the injury which stole your memories of your son?” Nessa asked softly, knowingly. Elmo froze. “Do you not regret leaving the infant to join the front lines, where you were injured and almost immediately useless, unable to aid anyone? When the father of the child was so far away and could not have known the babe needed him? Do you not regret all of this, when upon the child’s entrance to adulthood he told you in no uncertain terms that you caused him only pain and that he wished never to know you?”

Elmo couldn’t breathe. Why would- why would Nessa say these things to her, things she knew would hurt, of course she regretted, of _course_ -

The sconces on the wall seemed to burn hotter and hotter, releasing that pale grey smoke that wavered and grew in the air. She couldn’t breathe. Nessa was saying something again but _she couldn’t breathe-_

_-_

Elmo woke up.

She was in the same room as before, but this time Aiwë was sitting on a chair next to her. Seeing that she was awake he immediately leaned over. “Mama, are you alright? Mother said that you passed out. She said that you couldn’t breathe. The lamp-smoke,” he added. “Brother made you this,” he waved a piece of cloth up at the edge of her vision with his feathers.

Elmo ignored it and concentrated purely on breathing.

Aiwë, sweet child that he was, sensed how unsteady she felt. He put the thing down and walked around to the other side of the bed, pushing aside a large pillow and climbing onto it to nuzzle into her side. He was small, only the size of a Quendi child despite being full grown, and it comforted her. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled around him, hugging the small body and trying fruitlessly to stop the tears prickling at her eyelids.

“Mama, I’m sorry I brought you here without asking. I know it wasn’t time. But you were coughing out black dust and wouldn’t wake up. I was scared that maybe you never would,” he mumbled into her breast.

She cried then, and soon even harder because it was hurting her throat to take in air. _Little bird, little bird, my dearest; thank you for doing your best to save me. You help me so much every day and I am proud of you._

“You don’t sound proud,” he said unsurely. “You sound sad.”

 _Yes,_ Elmo said. _I am. Nessa said something cruel about Galadhon, and that made me very sad indeed._

Aiwë hugged her tightly. “I’m sorry, Mama. I wish he wasn’t dead. I always liked checking on him for you. His children were sweet to me whenever I went as a sparrow.” He paused. “I hope you can meet Celeborn one day. I guess it’s too late to meet Galathil, though.”

Elmo stroked his little brown head-feathers. _I wish that one day you will be able to meet him too, little bird._

He was silent for a while. Then he piped up, “Brother made you a mask, for breathing. Estë says that you need to wear it if there’s smoke or ash or dust. Or pollen,” he added at the end, thinking. “Maybe you should just wear it all the time.”

Elmo projected humor and acceptance at him. _Did she say that I could return to Endórë soon?_

He nodded.

 _Good,_ she thought. _I have messages to deliver, after all._ _Will you return with me?_

“Always, Mama. When I was born, Mother said I should never leave you alone, and I shan’t. You get into far too much trouble even when I _am_ around.”

 _Yes, well,_ Elmo laughed, _I am a bit stupid sometimes. My other half received our full share of brains, I think. You’ll have to be smart for the both of us._

Her little bird nodded and snuggled in. They spent the rest of a golden evening that way, and come morning, she was shuffled off to Estë for a check-up and told not to speak until her throat healed. Nessa then swept them up begrudgingly and deposited them back on the Anfauglith, the dust and hot ash stirred up by their arrival.

Elmo pulled her mask tight, delighting in the way that nothing but pure air could penetrate the magical weave, and began walking.

\---


	12. how sweetly we used to sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daeron finds Maglor amongst the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil in the Second Age; they reconnect and discuss the coming war.   
> Centuries earlier, Daeron and Vána bring a Maia into being. 
> 
> Featured characters: Daeron, Maglor, Vána  
> Secondary characters: Arien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: metaphysical birth (second scene)  
> \- this is a relatively short and (i hope) agreeable chapter; daeron & maglor will pop back up in ch. 16 so i hope everybody is enjoying them!
> 
> Name notes:
> 
> Káno = Macalaurë Kanafinwë = Maglor  
> yén = period of 144 years  
> Melyanna = Melian  
> Alaton = Daeron

**Year 3431 of the Second Age**

**_Three months before the Last Alliance gathers in Rivendell_ **

\---

Daeron had been hoping to find the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil quiet, safe enough for a quick night’s rest so that he could move on in the morning. There were usually a few families of Elves and Men sheltering in the parts of the city that still stood, but he hadn’t been looking for company tonight.

Yet something drew him to a flickering campfire on the edge of the old square where only walls and archways still stood. There was something familiar about the presence, and it had him picking his way silently through the litter of stones. Once there, he looked around and sat down on a massive block just across the fire from the one who had lit it.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, and Maglor jumped. Daeron smirked. “Not so good to be off your guard in a place like this - and in a time of war, you know.”

The Ñoldo glared at him. “I’m _not._ You're too familiar to register to me as a threat." He considered his words and then added, "Maybe you should try stabbing me one day to fix that. How did you find me?”

Daeron put on a fake air of despair. “Not a threat! I’m hurt," he sighed. "I was hardly _looking_ for you, Káno; I think we must have simply wandered into each other again. It’s bound to happen at least once every yén, don’t you think?”

The old soldier laughed. “I suppose so.” He stuck another stick in the fire and then stood up, dusting the seat of his leggings off and then walking around the fire. When Daeron nodded to his gesture, he sat down on the ground and pressed himself to Daeron’s legs, putting his arms across his lap and pillowing his head on them. Daeron began pulling the pins and ties out of the hairstyle that Maglor probably hadn’t touched in weeks, unwinding the braid about his head and pulling a familiar comb out of his pocket in order to brush it all out.

Maglor breathed out slowly, enjoying the contact almost as much as Daeron was. He had lovely long black hair that Daeron always wanted in his hands – he’d cut off most of his own silver locks a long, long time ago and generally kept it short and neat with a small ponytail, but Maglor’s royal upbringing had apparently instilled in him a set of values that insisted he not cut his hair any shorter than his knees no matter the circumstances.

 _Finwë always did have the oddest ideas_ , Daeron mused in remembrance. He removed the final tie at the end of the long braid and began running his fingers through it from the bottom up. It had been a few centuries since they’d run last across each other – far too long, in his opinion. Just because he didn’t want to live in an elven settlement did not mean he didn’t want to see those he still called friend. Maglor was still trying to work through the guilt of three successive kin-slayings, though, and tended to stay away from potential contact.

It was true that Daeron had not wanted to see him for most of the First Age and part of the Second, but so much time had passed. It was - it was so much easier just to _forget_.

And something kept pulling them together. Even when he tried his hardest to recall how this elf had contributed to the death of his descendants – even when he tried to hate him - there was something tragically pleasing in the pull they experienced towards each other. Daeron sought and valued love too much to let long-ago horrors prevent him from his sublime little doomed romance.

Perhaps he’d given up the right to be angry all those years ago in Hithlum when he’d pacted with Mablung and Elmo to hide the truth of the kin-slaying from Elwë. Maglor may have broken the promise that he and Finrod had given, but in their silence the three Moriquendi had enabled the Ñoldorin takeover of Beleriand. They had made themselves partially complicit, and none had ever confessed to the lie of omission.

Ah well. _The things one does for a good lay_ , he thought fondly, knowing how awful it sounded but amused by it nonetheless. He’d rather enjoy himself now, when he couldn’t foresee it leading to anything negative, then restrain his kindnesses out of respect for the dead. He’d given up enough over the years.

Daeron ran his fingers through the loose hair and began massaging Maglor’s scalp, smiling as his ears perked up from the sensation. “I hear that Elendil and Gil-Galad are preparing to counter Sauron.” Maglor tensed slightly under him at the words.

He continued softly. “Even unconnected wanderers like us are being encouraged to join the army and offer our skills. I ran into Elmo the other day, actually; she said that the army will be moving to Imladris to train.” Unspoken was that if Maglor joined, he might have a chance to see Elrond again from afar. Daeron knew perfectly well that the other elf felt far too guilty to actually make contact, but this might be a more attractive prospect.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Maglor said softly and a little awkwardly. “Will you, though?”

Daeron laughed. “Certainly not! I’m hardly a soldier. The best I could do is to help ward a camp, and I think they have enough magical objects for that at the moment. You, on the other hand, could ward a camp, wash the dishes, cook lembas, entertain the soldiers, _and_ sing death upon the enemy. Not to mention your sword-work, which I suppose is passable,” he chuckled. It amused him to downplay the things that Maglor was most famous for.

The elf in his lap groaned and pressed his face into his thighs. “I’m too old and tired for that. Second-hand goods,” he mumbled. “Already been used.”

Daeron guffawed. “ _You’re_ too old! I literally gave birth to the Sun, you little bitch.”

“We can _both_ be old, then,” Maglor decided with the logic of a wasted toddler. “I definitely haven’t felt youthful in Ages.”

Daeron smiled down at him and ran his hands through the long hair one last time, shaking it out. He pushed the younger elf off of his lap firmly, ignoring the complaint, and slid off the stone block to sit down with his back to it, his side pressed warmly to Maglor’s in the chill air. “You’re going to fight, though, aren’t you?” he said with certainty. “You did at the end of the seventeenth century, if I recall.”

Dark hair spilled over them both as Maglor tilted his cheek onto Daeron’s shoulder. “As long as Sauron is alive; as long as I live; I will fight him,” he declared softly. “I’ll find a regiment of Men closer to the first battle and offer my blade. It worked well enough with the Númenóreans before.” He fell into silence for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the night, and then began humming softly.

Daeron smiled and hummed a few bars of the familiar song in harmony before sneakily letting it turn dissonant. Maglor broke off his part and lifted his head, glaring, and after a second of meeting his eyes Daeron laughed and kissed him soundly on the mouth. “You’re so predictable.”

Maglor frowned in annoyance and said, “I’d like to see _you_ do any differently, if you started singing the _Lay of Leithian_ and I only joined in to add grim undertones-“

Daeron cut him off before he could go any further, pushing him to the hard ground and climbing over him, pulling apart his tunic and pressing cold hands to his warm chest. Maglor gave up the argument and did the same to him, unbuttoning the blouse that Daeron had on under his sturdy cape. Maglor dragged his hands down his collarbone and then ran his right gently over the large burn scar that Daeron sported in a starburst over the center of his chest.

The old elf shivered and lifted his head from where he had been sucking at Maglor’s neck. Confused, he asked, “I thought you lacked feeling in that one?” The burn that the Silmaril produced had covered the palm and the insides of his fingers with scar tissue, marbled with narrow gold streaks. His own scar looked relatively similar.

Maglor pressed his palm flat, letting scar meet scar, and replied knowingly, “Do you?” He spread his fingers out, letting the stiff texture of his palm run over the sensitive skin. Daeron shivered again and gasped. “Alright, fine, no, but how did you _know-“_

Maglor stole his mouth in a kiss for long seconds and then laid his head back down to look at his lover. “They may be from very different events, but at their most basic, they’re both soul-scars. They’re magical. I realized the last time we saw each other that yours is noticeably warm, and it was then that I thought of it. Mine took forever to heal because of it,” he added, propping himself up on his elbows for a better view.

The older elf looked at him, astonished, and then bowed his head and dropped his forehead to Maglor’s chest in intellectual despair. “I didn’t even think to make the connection. Unbelievable.” He lifted his head up enough to make eye contact. “You could write a thesis just on us. Submit it to the university in Lindon. ‘ _On the Effects of Soul-Scars: A comparison of the lights of Fëanor and Arien’,_ ” he laughed, knowing the concept was ridiculous.

“Who do you think I am; Master Rúmil?” Maglor asked, smiling. “You’re terrible.”

Daeron huffed. “He would be positively appalled that you would reject such a lovely, promising topic like this. Some credit to your profession _you_ are-“

Maglor _thunked_ his head forward into Daeron’s to cut him off. “I’m not a credit to anything except orc-killing, you old, washed-up bard, and it’s time you remembered it.”

Daeron laughed, pleased that his lover was ready to tussle. “Oh, I’m positively shriveled. Can barely _pluck_ a _string_ nowadays,” he said titillatingly, wagging his eyebrows. “A full _movement_ is just completely beyond me!” he finished, sniggering at Maglor’s harassed expression.

“Eru, why do I even put up with you?” Maglor asked beseechingly, tone at total odds with his actions as he lay back down and gripped Daeron’s thighs tightly, adjusting the lighter elf on top of him so that their groins met in harmony.

Daeron let him do what he would and then leaned down to kiss him again. “We’re disgustingly perfect for each other, dear,” he whispered into a reddened, pointed ear. “Used up, thrown aside, forgotten and wandering until the ends of Arda. Who else would I ever be able to lie with like this?” he asked quietly. “Who else knows what we used to be like; or how sweetly we used to sing?”

* * *

**Year 1131 of the Years of the Trees**

**_One Valian year after Elwë has gone missing in Nan Elmoth_ **

\--

Daeron writhed on the bed, gasping short breaths, tears leaking from his unseeing eyes as Vána restrained him. She watched her elf carefully, feeding more power where it was necessary, and otherwise waiting silently. The child was almost out; it would not be long now.

His chest had been glowing softly for some time – the light had cued her off to the beginning of the birth. But it was now starting to grow, collecting above his core and manifesting as small dark flames that licked at the flesh above his heart. Vána, unable to release his wrists, instead created a third arm for her fana and brought newly-formed fingers through the little flames. They weren’t giving off heat, just a gentle power. How sweet.

More had emerged, now, curving, and she realize it was roughly shaped like an orb. She coaxed it along. It was almost out. _Come, child._

At the very last moment, in the instant it slipped free, it transformed from a little red-brown orb into a wild gout of orange flame. Daeron screamed awfully as it burned the part of his chest still in contact, and Vána quickly produced a shield so that their new daughter would feel harmless to him. But the burn remained, and she gently put him to sleep with a thought so she could pull her daughter close to examine her without distraction.

Confirming both her health and the completion of her birth, she turned to the elf and gently ran her hand over the burn, soothing the anger out of it. She couldn’t remove it, though, and in the realization she felt also that bonds of their oath had broken, unable to hold through the physical harm that had just been done to him.

She withdrew her hand, disappointed, and sighed. He would be returned to his people for good once he woke up, then, and she would have no more Maiar.

She raised the lovely little flame and spoke. “You will be Arien, dearest one, the strongest of my servants and children. Your fate is greater than it once was, now, as I may no longer make any more of you with the Quendë who bore you.”

The flame sent off agreeable sparks, happy for the attention. They communed that way until Daeron showed signs of waking.

After a long while, he groaned and opened his eyes. “By the stars, does my chest hurt!”

Vána hummed, letting a few flowers sprout on her robe. He always liked that. “The child is very powerful. She burnt you upon exit,” she explained. “I am sorry for your pain. I did not think that there would be a problem, or I would have warded you ahead of time.”

Daeron nodded, flinching when the movement in his neck pulled on his chest. “I’ll just- stay still then, won’t I. Oh my.” He felt around the area with care. “Melyanna wasn’t like this at all, and she’s quite strong,” he commented, half in question.

“No,” the Vala replied. “Melyanna’s power is in illusions and the forest. Arien’s is in utter flame.” She let him take this in, and then continued formally. “You have suffered harm by my hand, Alaton of Cuiviénen, and accordingly the oath no longer binds us. Thank you for your service.” She bowed her head to him, hands clasped in the manner of the Quendi when giving thanks. “I will return you to your people at your behest.”

Daeron looked stricken. He gathered himself, and stuttered, “I- yes- of course. My lady,” he breathed out. “I will need some time to heal. After that, I would prevail upon you to return me. Many thanks.”

Vána smiled, knowing that he meant to stay for a while to form a relationship with the newborn Maia. He had done the same for each of the others, some of whom – like Melyanna – had become attached enough follow him back to Arda. Arien, however, would need to stay here. Vàna could grant him this. She nodded, and he sighed in relief.

“May I touch her, or will she burn me again?” he asked in slight trepidation.

“I have warded her power for you,” she replied, “until such a time as she is able to do it herself. I will leave you now; she is yours for the time being.” Vána extended the hand that held their daughter and passed the little spirit to its elven parent. It flickered happily, sending off sparks at him. Daeron flinched reflexively and then laughed quietly when he realized he was unharmed. He petted the flame sweetly and smiled, starting to talk to it and welcome it into the great big world.

Vána took her leave and did not witness Daeron casting a last wistful glance at her as she disappeared.

\---


	13. a path of healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of how Elwing’s nurse Evranîn ended up fighting for the Fëanorian host, Maglor met a language he couldn’t immediately pick up, and the ways a soul-healer dealt with irreparable damage.
> 
> Featured characters: Maedhros, Evranîn, Maglor  
> Secondary characters: Elwing, Elrond, Elros, Gereth, a Silmaril (Fëanor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this chap is a great example of me taking pre-canon characters that Tolkien discarded and going “actually wait no don’t throw them out I want to use them please”  
> \- evranîn received from estë the ability to sense a person’s wounds through touch, which she quickly realized is real fuckin’ unhelpful if you don’t actually know how to heal them. so she learned. she’s still pretty resentful about it though  
> \- I hope y’all are picking up the easter eggs as you go; I first mentioned this gal in ch. 1 and then she got a more serious name drop in ch. 11. (this whole story is just an intricate web of interconnections tbh)  
> \- vague references to chapters 2 and 4 are made
> 
> Quenya name notes:  
> Melyanna - Melian  
> Alaton - Daeron

**Year 529 of the First Age**

**_The Third Kinslaying_ **

\---

The first time Maedhros met Evranîn, she was standing in front of Elwing with a sword, blocking the girl from his view, and said to him very dangerously and very loudly: “If you want her, you will have to go through me first; and while I may be but a nurse, you will find me handy enough with a blade!”

He scoffed, and as one they dove at each other; but Elwing behind her cried out and ran. Maglor to his side dove for her and the jewel, but quick as a hawk she clambered up onto the window-sill and jumped, her fear at Maglor’s own swiftness not giving her any time to look back. Both males yelled out, and Maedhros pulled back his sword in surprise; the nurse turned to look in response and then paled in shock.

“Where did she go?!” she cried.

Maedhros stood still, gaping, and Maglor gripped the sill, knuckles going pale under the strain. He stuck his head out the window and looked around.

The nurse pulled away from Maedhros and ran to the window, knocking Maglor aside for all that he had a foot of height on her and was covered in armor. She put her head through the opening and cried, “ _Elwing!”_ Nothing answered, and she started sobbing. Maglor next to her looked despairingly at Maedhros and then slowly backed away.

But before he got far, she whirled around and went for him, face streaked in tears. He barely brought his sword up in time, and in the close quarters she had the advantage as her smaller body and shorter sword were more easily maneuverable. Maedhros stayed out of it, unworried, and already wondering what to do next.

He watched for a minute and then left Maglor to it, walking out of the room and heading down the stairs. It was a high tower and took him several minutes to tread down to the exit; once there, he waved at one of his men to accompany him down to the beach. If they were lucky, Elwing’s body and the Silmaril would be lying on the beach under the window - or would wash up there soon.

(They were never lucky.)

The two of them walked onto the wet, rocky sand and began looking. There was certainly no corpse on the thin strip of beach between rock wall and tide, but he would regret if he did not look, and so they began.

They paced along a quarter-mile of beach, searching the pebbles and waves for any sign. Just after night fell, Maedhros spotted a crack in the rock which must have been nigh-invisible during the day but had a cleft that glittered in the torchlight.

At the very edge of his hearing, he caught faint whimpers and sobs. He called his guard over and pointed but was rewarded only by confusion. (Unsurprising; his night vision had been better than average ever since he’d spent most of thirty years in a prison cell. He didn’t recommend the method.) He doubted that it was Elwing, but it was possible that she’d pulled herself out of the water, injured, and dragged herself into a familiar hiding place.

He started forward and ducked into the crack, holding his torch out ahead of him. The cave was only a few meters deep, and very damp; it probably flooded at high tide.

When the children came into view, shivering and clinging together, he sighed, and crouched down a few feet away. His man paused behind him. It would have been so much _easier_ if it were Elwing here, shivering and injured, clutching the Silmaril like a lifeline. But that was a different story; and now he had to contend with difficult decisions.

\--

Maedhros and Maglor met up again in the main square of the Havens long after night had fallen. Maedhros and his guard each carried a small child, wrapped up in borrowed cloaks. Maglor had the nurse bound and gagged over his shoulder, and she was shooting deadly glares and cursing at everyone she made eye contact with. Both of them were bloody.

The brothers stared at each other, confused. Maedhros began, as his news was likely the most important. “Elwing’s children. They’ll come with us.” He pushed his long braid over his shoulder with the stump of his right hand and the child tightened its grip on his left. The nurse did not react to his words, but perhaps they had not previously been in her care.

Maglor exhaled. “This one’s too good of a fighter to leave be; and she started to heal herself mid-fight, which is a rare skill indeed. She’ll be valuable, especially if the princess isn’t dead in the water.”

Maedhros looked at him and found that he didn’t have the energy to argue. “I suppose we could use another healer, if she could be convinced not to knife anyone in the night.”

\--

When they finally made camp, Maglor dropped his load next to the boys. She cursed at him as her butt hit the ground and then tried to move her shoulders and stretch as best she could when her wrists and ankles were still tied. He sat down across from them and watched as the smaller of the children reached to tap on her arm, tentatively, and she gasped in surprise at seeing the little hand.

She turned to face them, stunned. “They _found_ you?!”

The child nodded, and Maglor frowned as they began to make gestures with their hands. Her eyes followed every move, and she made comforting noises at what must have been the appropriate times. He realized at that moment that she had no hearing and had developed an elaborate language of hand-signs, probably based off of those that hunters used.

He recognized a few but could not begin to parse most of it. The elflings certainly understood it, which might prove both a boon and a hindrance.

\--

The nurse’s hand-language proved to be boon, hindrance, and learning opportunity all at once. Maglor wasn’t sure if he’d convinced her to stay for the children’s sake, or if she had argued and persuaded him into it – she was remarkably persistent, which was probably aided by the fact that she could yell at him all she wanted and then pretend not to be able to read his lips, so he had to write everything down that he wanted to say; and by that point, she had already begun yelling at him about something else. Or tackled him; that had already happened thrice (not counting their initial fight) and he was not keen on a repeat.

Their hostages were named Elrond and Elros, and neither had decided on a gender yet. Elrond seemed rather combative while Elros was inclined to hang back, but by the second month of their habitation on Amon Ereb Maedhros had pulled his brother aside and reminded him of the span of years in which it had amused the Ambarussa to take on each other’s identities.

_I think they’re doing it as a defensive mechanism,_ he’d said. _The ‘Elrond’ child tests boundaries while the ‘Elros’ stays safe. If one is alone, they read the room and pick which to be._ It sickened Maglor to hear it, but they decided to leave the children to it, and hopefully prove through their actions that they were not interested in abusing the weak. There was no Silmaril; there would be no murder.

The primary issue with the language was that the children tended to converse with Elwing’s nurse in it and avoid spoken conversation entirely. It was thus a trial to get any information out of them – _what foods can you eat? How much warmth do you need? Are there plants that you are allergic to?_ – but it was also good, they had conferred, that the young ones would have something to retreat to which they felt secure in. (Eärendil or Gil-Galad would come for them soon, surely. Having a method of communication they felt safe using would reduce the trauma they were sure to have experienced.)

Despite that, the Fëanorions watched carefully and tried to learn the language. Celegorm would have picked it up quickly; Maglor, on the other hand, found it difficult because he depended heavily on noises and tones in communication. His visual memory was not as good as Maedhros’, who picked it up quite naturally over a period of months, and he could not easily tell by facial expressions if a phrase was supposed to be sarcastic or serious. The elder’s issue, of course, was that he could not demonstrate gestures well to Maglor in private, having only the one hand with which to do it.

Fortunately, the nurse – _Evranîn_ , she told them finally – was forthcoming with spoken words and gleefully held the loudest one-sided conversations with them north of the Gelion. She clearly knew exactly what strength of volume would hurt their ears the most and eagerly engaged in aural warfare, completely immune to any rejoinder.

\--

For her part, Evranîn had decided almost immediately to stay with the children. Most of her good friends had fallen in the Battle of the Thousand Caves less than thirty years earlier, half a decade before the sons of Fëanor had arrived to kill the king. She’d buried herself in healing and nursing then and followed the royal family to the Havens after Dior was killed, hoping to make some small difference – not that it helped.

She was determined to do better by the twins, whether it was in the middle of a Ñoldorin camp or not. Elrond was already showing interest in healing, which reassured her of the security of her position even after they outgrew needing a nurse. Elwing had needed her desperately even into adulthood, as she had no idea what to do with the two babes and Evranîn was only too glad to help. Here, she could teach Elrond her hard-earned skills, and it soothed her to know she had a place here with them; middle of kin-slayer territory or no, it was nice to be needed.

Maedhros’ wounds of heart and mind also presented an interesting challenge, and despite her dislike of his decision-making, she was well aware that he was the primary bastion of defense between Melkor and the southern lands. Amon Ereb was also a place of safety for her, as ridiculous as it seemed. Elwë would have condemned her for it, but he was dead and gone, and her priority was surviving.

In Sirion, they had lived looking over their shoulders, worried the Silmaril would draw enemies. But here in Fëanorian land they _were_ the enemy, and at no risk of unexpected attack - she could finally let that anxiety in her mind unfurl. If the lords wanted to attack her charges _here_ , she would know immediately, without having to look over her shoulder every day.

So it was with these thoughts in mind that she agreed to help the healers stationed with them, and then a few months later began participating in drills with the soldiers to keep her skills up. It was impossible to live among a people and not begin to make connections if they treated you well, and they did, so she did.

She brought her wax tablet and fingerless gloves everywhere, the cold temperatures solving every melting problem she’d ever had, but in mere months the people she saw most frequently had begun to pick up her hand-language, the Men included. Those at Sirion had as well, so she rather expected it, but she also thought that perhaps these northern frontiers saw its use more keenly given their frequent need for silent communication during scouting missions to the north. In short: she found it surprisingly easy to settle in, which she ascribed mostly to the many years of moving and homelessness and death that she had experienced between Cuiviénen and Doriath. She sent prayers to her dead and asked for absolution, but adaptation proceeded nonetheless.

She also waged war on Maedhros’ eardrums for a full five years before he gave up and allowed her to delve into his pain. By then, she had become part of the fortress, and he only watched his back in relation to her as much as he did for anyone else who lived there. She was vocal about her allegiances and her willingness to help or not; she kept little hidden, and it worked to her benefit.

The first time she laid hands on Maedhros’ chest, she started crying. This was beyond anything Estë had ever shown her how to mend. Maedhros, who had been hoping against hope that she would be able to do something even though he did not let it show, was crushed; he broke down too.

They ended up sobbing together in the little room for longer than either wanted to admit, and when they were done, Evranîn rolled up her figurative sleeves and went to work. She, at least, knew how to separate little pieces of her soul safely without harming herself or others. She sent multiple thanks to Estë, some out loud absently, and Maedhros felt her work with hope swelling in his heart.

 _How funny it is_ , she thought once, _that he_ accidentally _kidnapped one of the fourteen elves who could ever have understood this particular hurt, of whom perhaps only six remain on this shore? And of us all, what coincidence brought him to the_ single _elf in all of Arda who both understands his pain and can actually do something about it?_

She ran her mental hands over the jagged edges, the abyss, the cracks of unlight. Much of this was beyond her, but they had time, and she would do what she could. The unlight was the influence of a Vala; she could hardly remove it. But the jagged edges – yes. It took her years of work, but she carefully applied little blobs of soul and smoothed them out, letting the cracks fill in and become soft.

But soul-sharing had consequences, they found: in the same way a Maia inherited aspects of both its parents, Maedhros found that he inherited little bits of Evranîn’s being. It wasn’t enough to change his basic character, his ambitions, or nudge the Oath of Fëanor – but it eased the emptiness in his soul, and the parts of him that began to heal were small but obvious. His moods swung less, though his depression remained, and he lost himself in the past less often.

Maedhros and Evranîn came to an understanding on one dark night many years on when each realized that the other _would_ understand the events which had hurt them the most. Maedhros told her almost everything about Sauron, the things which he could not tell his brother or his dead lover or his uncle or even the healers who had first helped him because they had already known him. She was different; he did not have to care about her judgement.

And yet he did; and her calm gestures in response to the Creations of Gothmog, of Glaurung, of Gostir- her understanding suddenly meant a great deal. And in response, she told him of her oath, and of the early Maiar, hers and others, who had been corrupted by Melkor and killed her people. Of Melyanna, Alaton’s eldest, who had gone so badly wrong that she had taken away their brother’s ability to dissent. They were all scarred, in their ways, and sharing the pain was a path of healing.

And so Evranîn found herself fighting, healing, and caring for the Ñoldor who had so upended her life. And sometimes it was nice, even, when she solved problems and made new friends and Maglor tilted his head _just so_ and memories of Finwë laughing in the lake crashed into her and sent her reeling.

People were people, she thought, even when they were pressed to do horrible things. And here she was, in the middle of it all, welcomed in the fight just as she was.

* * *

**Year 509 of the First Age**

**_King Dior is dead; Elwing’s caretakers have fled to the Havens of Sirion_ **

\--

Elwing was finally asleep, bless her soul. The child had been crying for days. Evranîn been rocking her and humming lullabies, switching off with the Gereth, who in his off hours probably also went and hid in dark rooms to cry. It was infectious, really; the shock of having to abandon their home; the suspense of wondering if the Fëanorians would track them here; the ensuing anxiety of wondering if the Havens were going to suffer for their presence.

But the child was asleep now and nobody else was in the room. It was time to investigate the thing that had been bothering Evranîn since she had first glimpsed the Silmaril on Elwë’s breast nearly four decades earlier. She stood up and leaned over the tiny child’s bed, tucking a blanket around the small form more securely, before she walked over to the box on the dresser which held the damned jewel. She picked the container up and brought it back over to the rocking-chair, settling it firmly in her lap. Without opening the lid, she laid her hands on its top and then breathed out.

She could _feel_ it. All Doriathrim knew that the jewel was special and like no other, but this – this had a _soul_. Or a piece of one, at least. One that held enough power to influence its wearers, as she saw in both Elwë and his grandson Dior. It would undoubtedly now reach greedy claws into the child she nursed.

She opened her eyes and stared at nothing for a long while. This thing was dangerous, but if she spirited it away in the night, history had shown that someone might honestly kill her for it. Could she run? Return it to the Fëanorians for a promise of security? How did Fëanor even learn how to make such a thing, when she had heard that Finwë had forbidden for knowledge of the oath to be spread?

She unlatched the box and closed her eyes. Moving by touch, she opened the lid just enough to slip a hand in and rested it carefully upon the jewel. Immediately, there was a flood of sensation: _anger-envy-pride-fear-love._ She breathed through it. No wonder it had influenced its wearers. She might also have been caught by it, save that she had long been in the business of souls and knew only too well how to separate herself from another’s. She must not let Gereth lay his eyes on it.

But something was missing. This was not a whole soul; this felt like a little piece. Not like a nascent Maia, just conceived, small but whole; this was instead a small piece of an adult soul that had been separated.

She ran her mental fingers around it and felt through the edges. They weren’t ragged, really, but there was a profound sense of _loss_ around its periphery. It _wanted_ to be whole again. She pulled her hand out, suddenly unable to meet its emotion, and let the lid close.

Unless Fëanor himself appeared in front of her and asked for himself back, there was nothing she could do for it. His sons strove for nothing. This was a piece of their father, yes, but not one that they could heal or talk to, and almost certainly not one that reflected his being as a whole.

She shook her head and leaned back, the futility of it all hitting her at once. She almost wished that Estë would call for her, just so she could hand in this horrible thing to the Valar and let them break it Ages early. But no; no. There was nothing she could do but wait.

\--


	14. some measure of peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor visits his old master and friend Rúmil after Finwë’s distressing revelation; his world turns upside-down yet again.  
> Years earlier, Rúmil receives an inopportune summons and must ask someone to take over his class.  
> Many, many Ages later, Rúmil decides that it is time to reveal his truth, and does so to the best kind of audience: the one whose work he can manipulate and edit to his liking. 
> 
> Featured characters: Rúmil, Fëanor  
> Secondary characters: Elemmírë, Míriel (discussed), Vairë (discussed), Rúmil’s students

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: vague discussion of implied meta/physical rape  
> \- this first scene follows directly from the first scene in ch. 1  
> \- avoiding canon in favor of pre-canon for this one; I know you’re all *very* surprised. bolded quote is from "The Earliest Version of the Story of Finwe and Míriel," Morgoth's Ring 3.II.  
> \- rúmil is not a therapist and he’s honestly shocked that anyone would think discussing emotions with him is a good idea. finwe why did you leave this up to him  
> \- this chapter starts on a sad note but I hope you will get a laugh at the end!!

**YT 1470**

**_twenty years before Fëanor is exiled to Formenos_ **

\--

Rúmil looked up as his office door was wrenched open and his best graduate filled the doorway, grief and anxiety playing across his face.

He tilted a brow in question and said, “Fëanáro! Come in. You look terrible.” It had been years since the High Prince had asked to see him, though they actively exchanged letters; for him to visit now, unannounced and in the middle of political turmoil, spoke either of something truly unfortunate having happened or that the Prince was about to ask him to do something for his cause. He was hoping to avoid that outcome; neutrality had always served him well.

Fëanáro closed the door without pausing and crossed the large, well-lit office to his favorite chair, a visibly used and heavily cushioned piece from the previous century. He sank into it with a slouch and ran his hands down his face. 

“I am sorry to come to you like this, Master Rúmil, in a state of distress rather than happily bearing news and a gift, but I swear, I did not know who else to turn to!” he sighed.

Rúmil shook his head. “I know not what has happened and do not know if I will be able to help, but I do not mind listening. Perhaps in the telling you will find some measure of peace?” he said firmly, hoping that that would indeed be the case. He wiped off the last of the ink from the quill he had been holding and set it back into the intricately wrought copper stand. Fëanáro watched him cross his arms and lean forward, prepared for whatever news the younger elf was about to deliver.

The prince closed his eyes and took several deep breaths – this must be bad indeed. Fëanáro did not usually take time to _think_ about what he wanted to say. Perhaps it was sensitive information.

His once-student finally began explaining, and quickly he realized that yes _,_ this was _very_ sensitive information. Finwë had told his son of the oath - and of all its takers - after so many years of refusing to let the information spread?

“Incredible,” he murmured absently, and then realized he had interrupted. Fëanáro frowned, and Rúmil quickly apologized.

“I meant- I am surprised at Finwë, really. I thought he would never want anyone to know this, but his sons catch him out once and, what, that is the end of it? My word! If I had known it was that easy then I would have set him up in some awkward situation _years_ ago.”

Fëanáro did not appear to appreciate his attempt at humor. “Master Rúmil, I have many thoughts on this matter, as I am sure you expect. But what troubles me the most is what my father told me alone: that my mother Míriel died giving birth to me not because of _me,_ but because of her previous service to Oromë.”

“Ah,” Rúmil said, awkwardly, and then cursed himself. He couldn’t have managed something more poignant? But there was simply so much loaded in Fëanáro’s statement. How could he ever answer it all satisfactorily? He shook his head and tried to recover his gravitas.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “as far as we know, this is true, and your mother believed it to be so as well, if that is any consolation.” He paused; Fëanáro looked freshly devastated, and he wasn’t sure what to say. “You must feel rather conflicted about this.”

The prince rubbed his brow and leaned on the high back of the chair. “Of course I am! I’ve- I’ve long thought that my birth alone was the cause of her death, an idea which my father did little to disabuse and the court even less; now I suddenly have definitive proof that it did _not_ , but these glad tidings are mixed with the news that my mother was giving of herself to a Vala in extremely intimate and intrusive ways, and in a relationship which my father refuses to confirm was not emotionally harmful or something that she had any measure of power in!”

Well, that was a horrible declaration indeed. Rúmil let it sit for a minute as Fëanáro tried to master himself. Then he leaned back into his chair, running his fingers along the studs on the armrest. “And so you come to me, because I too have taken this oath, and your father has proven to have held information back concerning our experiences.”

Fëanáro nodded. “Yes. If it isn’t too much to ask.”

Rúmil sighed. “It is much, but perhaps not _too_ much. I have grown used to speaking nothing about it, you see; your mother was my confidante in this matter and she is here no more.”

Fëanáro frowned. “You used to talk to my father a great deal; do you no longer?”

It was a sensible question, but not one that Rúmil really felt comfortable answering in-depth in the presence of the man’s son. He diverted. “I do; however, our experiences in this matter have always been different. I had more in common with Míriel, and with Enel across the sea. Olwë as well, I suppose, but of course he is rarely here in Tirion and our relationship was never as good.” Fëanáro was listening intently, and so he continued.

“Are you going to take the information I give you straight to your supporters, High Prince? Because I will tell you now – I do not wish to be part of that, and I do not think Olwë or Ingwë would, either. I guess also that your father has asked you not to make this matter part of your political fight – tell me; how did that go?”

Fëanáro looked at him with wide eyes. “No! This meeting with you is for me, and me alone. Some of what the king has told me must be revealed, for this secret discloses the true nature of the Valar. But I swear to you now; I will not use you as a pawn in this fight.” His eyes were as fire, boring into Rúmil’s heart, and he could do naught but believe in the face of such charisma.

He sighed and gave up. That promise was as good as any. He wouldn’t previously have cared about his part in the oath becoming common knowledge, but at this point he fully believed the other masters would turn to him with magnifying glasses and start prodding. And the _students!_ No.

He nailed the prince with his most serious stare. “You want to know if our oaths were emotionally harmful, and if we have any power in these relationships, despite knowing the answer may hurt you?” He waited for him to nod, the last floodgate that would release everything.

Fëanáro dipped his head, anxiety in his eyes and heart and yet needing, _needing_ to hear the answer.

And so Rúmil began. “They hurt in every way. They compel us to answer the summons of the Vala, no matter the situation, and give to them everything we are. We are taken away, often to Halls not meant for Elven life, and besieged with immortal power for extended lengths of time. When we finally produce the life they seek, only sometimes do they ask if we would like to help raise it.” He attempted to remain detached, but it was difficult. He was generalizing terribly, combining every bit of experience he had ever heard the others discuss with his own, and yet it was still painful.

“We did not think to agree on a set number of Maiar or years before our service might end; why would we have, when we ourselves were relatively young and had not the slightest inkling of how long our lives could last? Most of the Valar swore not to allow physical harm to come to us, but many care not a whit about whether or not we’d like to be there, or to know our children, or perhaps to exchange power in a _slightly_ different way-“ he stopped, trying to breathe through the painful rock in his throat. “It truly has been a long time since I have been able to talk about this to anyone. I apologize. My only thoughts were to sparing you heartache, and yet I appear to have uncovered my own!” He pulled a thin braid from over his shoulder and began wringing it fiercely.

Fëanáro shook his head. “I am sorry.” He smoothed out his tunic over his thighs and then started again. “I can leave, if that would help. I understand now how difficult this must be.” He made to get up, but Rúmil stopped him with a hand.

“No! No, please. Sit back down. You are here now; I will get my use out of you yet!” Both elves tried to laugh, and neither really managed it. “There is something more important than any of that that you must hear, Fëanáro, which I should have told you a long time ago.”

“I asked Finwë after you were born to allow me to see you often and to treat you well, and he allowed it. What I should have asked for was to know you as a nephew, for I have always thought you as such, and that is because Míriel Þerinde is my sister in every sense of the word that matters. We awoke together in the lake and for a while knew only each other; as with Enel and Enelyë, we were counted as twins and knew each other the best of anyone.”

Fëanáro looked shocked, and Rúmil ignored his shaking hands and continued. “But that is not all I have to say to you, of things which should have been said centuries ago, and I hope you will forgive me for my silence. I do not know if Finwë told you; so I will tell you now that I am sworn to Vairë the Weaver, who even now hosts your mother in her halls.”

“Ever since Míriel awoke there after her death have I sought her out during my summons, and I have always told her everything of you that I had to give. When I said earlier that she _believed_ that Oromë had been the cause of her death; I meant truly that she _believes_ it, now in the present, and she blames you for naught. She loves you, Fëanáro, and I only wish that I could take advantage of my own situation to bring you to her myself.” He shook his head.

“Alas, but it is not so. And there you have it, the secret that the Kings’ agéd edict has forced me to keep these long years; that your mother was sundered from all but me, and I have treasured her guiltily and shared with her what I could.” He closed his eyes. He felt drained – empty – and very much did not want to look up and meet the eyes of his prince and see the betrayal that undoubtedly shone there.

But he was shocked out of despair by the feeling of warm hands clasping his own, and he opened his eyes to the sight of Fëanáro inches away, almost sprawled over the desk to get to him. “Rúmil, _thank you._ Uncle, I-” and suddenly he could not hold himself together anymore. His tears leaked out and then he was crying silently in a heap on Rúmil’s grand old desk, which more normally saw misbehaving students being scolded across it.

The old scholar was at a complete loss for several minutes. He normally sent crying students across the hall to Elemmírë! He had no idea what was happening.

“You…aren’t angry with me?” he asked quietly, rather bewildered.

Fëanáro shook his head where it was in his arms, and then thought better of it, lifting his face to the light and wiping at his eyes even as they continued to water. “Well, I suppose I am a little wroth, but truly you cannot know what it means to me – above everything else - to hear you speak of her as though – as though she is _alive_ , as though she is here with us.” He ran a hand over his face and slumped back in his chair, only a little more gracefully than in his initial entry.

“I am so used to my mother being a pale ghost, faded away, without even memories to sustain her here; few speak her name and even fewer do it around me. And here you are – speaking with me – telling me that she is alive enough to speak with you, and that her words are of _me!”_ He was overcome again, and Rúmil waited, feeling close to agony himself.

 _I should have told him; to Mandos with the Kings and that edict-_ but no; he tried to be honest with himself always, and he knew he valued the status quo far too much to introduce such an unpredictable variable. Without Finwë breaking his own rule, without Fëanáro coming here – he would never have let it slip.

But now he had, and he could only hope that perhaps they would become a little closer for it.

\---

**_Yet Finwë was not content, and he desired to have more children. He spoke, therefore […] to Manwë, saying: 'Lord, behold! I am bereaved [… ] For I deem that Míriel will not return again ever from the house of Vairë.'_ **

****

* * *

**Year 1430 of the Years of the Trees**

**_twenty Valian years after Melkor begins walking amongst the Ñoldor_ **

**_\---_ **

Rúmil was in the middle of instructing a rowdy class on the history of the Tengwar and Sarati when he felt it: a little tugging sensation on his bond with Vairë that meant that she was calling for him. Oh, what terrible timing!

He stopped the lecture and announced a break – the students _cheered_ , the little buggers – and went to the staff lounge to find someone to step in. The only one there was Elemmírë, to his disgruntlement. If only it had been Quennar! He cleared his throat.

“I apologize, Elemmírë; I know how busy your schedule is, but something has just come up and I need to leave the city. Immediately,” he clarified when she did nothing but stare at him. “Could you possibly pick up my advanced paleography class?”

She nodded hesitantly, suspiciously, and then asked the dreadful question: “How long will you be gone, do you think? Is it just this week?”

He swallowed. This was going to cement him as the most unpredictable, _unreliable_ master- “A year. Probably. If not more. I am _so sorry-_ ”

She shook her head and waved him off. “This is ridiculous, but you’re positively shaking, Rúmil, go ahead and leave. I’ll sort something out with the dean, and I hope you can do the same with whatever it is that’s happened. I expect a mailer with your syllabus and materials promptly!”

He nodded and then bowed deeply, hoping to impress upon her how out-of-character this was and how much he already regretted it. But he had no more time; the tugging was getting insistent. Oh, would it were that he had contracted with Aulë instead, who offered Finwë months of warning every time!

He gathered up his cloak and case so that it would not appear that he had been kidnapped out of the University and rushed into a cloakroom after checking to make sure no one else was in sight. He tried to control his breathing for a few seconds, there in the cramped darkness, and then Vaire swept him up in a whirl of light and everything was gone.

* * *

**Year 1899 of the Fifth Age**

**_peace_ **

\--

Rúmil was in the middle of instructing a rowdy class on the history of the Tengwar and Sarati when he finally gave up. “What _are_ you whispering about that is so much more interesting than today’s lecture?”

Three of the troublemakers in the middle of the cluster looked up guiltily. One grinned, abashed. “Sorry, Master Rúmil! It’s just that we learned in our class about the First Oath; we’d never heard of it before, and it’s absolutely wild!”

Rúmil’s heart sank but his eyebrows raised. He’d had a lot of practice schooling his expression in front of students. “Wild?” he asked calmly. “What in _particular_ was Master Lindir telling you?”

Another raised their hand on reflex and immediately spoke. “Pardon my language, sir, but it’s fucked up!” A chorus of nods from the other students. “We were reading that the oath-takers all have to answer summons at any time, as many times as the Vala wants, and it takes a really long time for the souls to be created-”

The original student interrupted. “And that the Old Kings _forbid_ them from telling anyone in Valinor! So everybody in Ennor knew, but the oath-takers couldn’t talk to anyone here! And the Valar just didn’t care _and_ didn’t really help at all even though they promised to! And Master Rúmil, did you know that the whole thing with Fëanor being born and killing Queen Míriel was wrong, that-“

The other took the conversation back again like a captured game ball. “Yeah! That Lord Oromë was actually taking too much from her! Did you know all of this? It’s absolutely crazy!”

Rúmil eyed them, and they fell silent with guilty looks. He let the suspense build, and then spoke. “I did, actually, given that Lady Vairë summons me approximately once every five yéni to eat her out and make a child despite my best wishes on the matter.”

Absolute silence. He heard three pencils drop.

He scratched the tip of his pointed ear casually and watched them, his face as straight as he could make it. Those long years of practice were really coming in handy.

The nér broke the silence first. “Sorry, Master Rúmil, I think- I think I misheard you. What….what was that last bit?” she said, tentatively. All eyes were on him.

Rúmil put his hands on the lectern very seriously. “You all heard me the first time, bratlings. I’ve been waiting eleven thousand years to let that slip; you’d better not disappoint me by not telling anyone.”

They went wild.

He’d never seen such enthusiastic signs of consent for what was essentially an (admittedly rather sordid) lore-mastery homework assignment. Some of them were still caught in the spell of surprise, probably in shock that he knew about anything remotely sexual. His perceived status as a permanent bachelor was probably something they were just _born_ knowing.

Even his laziest student had already pulled out their notebook and was writing something down. They called out, “Master Rúmil, you can rely on us; we’ll be sure to make it as dramatic as possible! _Thank you_ , sir!”

At least they seemed to understand the value of the information that they had just been given. He might make this into the extended assignment for the year; add in some research; some creative writing; listing it in the annals…oh, he would milk this for all it was worth. He’d have to place bets with Elemmírë and Míriel on how soon the young ones would realize that he’d given them almost nothing and decide that they could come pester him for actual information.

Despite his light thoughts, it was like an old weight had lifted from his heart. He’d told his closest friends long ago of his history; _“I was once known as Tata,”_ he’d said, _“and I hated it. And then I swore an oath, and I ended up hating that too.”_ His sister and her son had been re-embodied; he had his loved ones again. But this had been the one thing he’d kept back, something that shamed him as a lore-master: the line next to Vairë’s in every history book was blank. The other oath-takers and Unbegotten had kept the secret for those who had wanted it forgotten, and for many Ages he had been counted amongst that number.

He had thought on revealing this secret for a long, long time – ever since the end of the Trees, when Fëanáro broke the news, really. But only lately had he thought on it seriously – what was holding him back? He didn’t want to be known as a pathetic figure, and he probably would have been if the truth had come out when the Trees still stood, as Finwë and Ingwë had been.

But almost all of the other oath-takers had revealed themselves over the years, and most of them were far more valiant and powerful than he. The emotion that he had seen in others’ reactions in more recent years tended to be anger; empathy and shock and horror. Not pity.

The oath-takers were elves who – with the exception of Morwë – had suffered impossible trauma and (mostly) lived to tell the tale; elves who did great things with their lives and lived far _beyond_ their bounds as child-bearers. And as he thought about it, he realized that he had, too; he had never defined himself by his relationship to Vairë, and he never would, even if she never released him. He could talk about it to others, now, and share the burden in ways that were unavailable to him in earlier Ages.

Vairë wrote and recorded stories, which was the one thing that had always connected them. Now, nothing was stopping him from disseminating his own words through his eager students, or through a book, or- well, he could walk into Tirion’s main square and get on a soapbox if he wanted. Rúmil was done hiding. He was free to define his own image in the eyes of others, and by Eru would he do it.

Perhaps a sabbatical was in order.

\--


	15. her nails sank into the edges of his power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Míriel and Oromë begin creating their first child, and Míriel toes the line of what Oromë is willing to give.  
> Years earlier, Tata and Tatië welcome a warrior-group back to Cuiviénen’s main settlement. Morwë sustains an awkward wound, and Míriel laughs it off rather than think too long about how she received it.
> 
> Featured characters: Míriel, Oromë, Rúmil, Morwë, Rog  
> Secondary characters: Indis, Elmo, Aranwë, Tórin, Evranîn, Lenwë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- very slight cw for non-consensual body modification  
> \- there is actual sex in this chapter, I know you are all very surprised  
> \- why would I even bother writing fic if I couldn’t make all the ladies badass?   
> \- we now have character lineups! check 'em out here https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/tagged/the-first-oath
> 
> Name guide:  
> Tórin – Daurin (Gnomish/Qenya name; does not have Sindarin counterpart)  
> Roka – Rog  
> Tatië – ‘second [female]’ - Míriel Þerindë  
> Tata – ‘second’ - Rúmil  
> Enel – ‘third’ – Erestor  
> Iminyë – 'first [female]' - Indis (there are two Iminyës, so they took second names early to differentiate)

**Year 1104 of the YT**

**_Three Valian months after the first Vala arrived to swear the oath_ **

\--

Míriel gasped as he eased into her. Her blood was aflame with want, with adrenaline from the hunt; she was ready and willing and yet-

 _and yet this is not the person I truly desire,_ she thought, loud enough in her passion that she knew Oromë must have caught it, but he gave no indication and-

-and the sensation was amazing; the heat overflowing; the wild power of the forest was coursing through her, carried in Oromë's very skin and blood. His fána felt like exhilaration, and now he drove it into her, and she couldn’t recall anything she’d ever done in the face of this majesty.

He gave, and she took; and for a while could only be fiercely glad that she had made this choice. His fingers, varyingly bark-like, furred, and mossy, dragged over her skin thrillingly. She clung to him tightly, crying out, and sometimes clawed furrows into his back as her nails sank into the edges of his power and turned into something else.

And then, at the very height of their passion, when she felt that she must have _something_ or she would fly apart, crumble into nothingness; become one with the stars themselves – the string snapped, and Oromë’s soul subsumed her.

She came back to herself to the feeling of the lord releasing within her. Something hot was filling her from his cock, and something warm and strong and bright was flowing into and around her soul. It was a shocking feeling; it felt like she was being penetrated twice over.

The lord hovered over her, held upright by strong arms, his sweat mingling with hers, the leaves and soil from their earlier hunt still covering him. She couldn’t stop staring at his form even as her mind was occupied inside herself, watching their souls mingle; she reached a shaking hand up to his chest and laid it upon his heart. Perhaps if she used a little of this power and pushed it, she would be able to mimic what was happening to her in this moment? It was only fair. This was such a queer feeling, this Creation, and she was still breathing hard and coming off the high of sex; her mind was clouded and she could only see the curiosity in front of her, so she began to _push_ -

For an instant the power surrounding her turned hard and menacing, and she pulled back, fearful. Oromë’s eyes were suddenly open and appeared as molten gold, staring nowhere and everywhere and through her all at once. She received a clear sense of distaste, and thought, _well, if you didn’t want me doing that, then you should have gone over what you expected earlier. I certainly haven’t stopped anything_ you’ve _done tonight, however unusual it seems to me!_

And the lord heard her and answered, overwhelmingly, echoing from every tree and insect and hollow around them and yet only in her mind: _I say no, child, because that part of me is not for you; we are not reversible, Tatië of Cuiviénen._

He released her, and she gasped, panting and frowning. She had not realized she had sworn herself to a _master_ ; she had thought of it as swearing herself to a sometimes-husband. If she was wrong…

_Indeed, you were wrong. I have promised to treasure you, and I will, Quendë, but I will never give you all of myself, and you shall only ever have a small part of my time, for I have many hunts to watch over and kills to make._

Míriel was rather affronted by this. She also realized at that moment that the two of them were still connected, and so moved off of the Vala as smoothly as she could given her relative unfamiliarity with the situation. “Well, then, Lord Oromë, if you do not mind, I would give _you_ as little of my time as possible also. I would prefer to stay here with my people for as much of this process as I can. Will you allow _that?_ ” Her tone probably bordered on insolent, but this was not how she had imagined their first encounter ending.

He looked at her silently and nodded. “Allow me one further action to ensure your safety, then.” Without waiting for her to say yes, he leaned forward over her again and brought his mouth to her neck. She had but a moment to wonder what was going on before he flicked his tongue out and licked her and she jolted. He’d been doing that earlier, of course, but she’d lost the mood entirely by now; what was this?

He lifted his head up and moved away then, sitting cross-legged in front of her and examining her nakedness. She felt exposed, all of a sudden, and looked down to see what he was watching.

She gasped. “What are _these?”_ There were _colors_ on her flesh now, vibrant shades of green and gold and red that crawled around like vines on her brown skin. They settled as she watched, forming bands and delicate curlicues, and she brought her hand instinctively to the place where Oromë had mouthed at her neck. “My lord?”

He ran a hand along her thigh. “These will keep you safe and alert me if you come under attack while Creating our child. I would have you and it protected, if you insist upon living here until the time comes.” He stood up, brushing himself off. “Would you like me to take you back to your settlement?”

She shook her head, expression pleasant. “I know where I am, and this area is safe. I will find my way back.”

He dipped his head. “Fare thee well. I will be back to check on you when I feel the power in you waning.” He turned on his heel and quite literally faded into the forest.

Míriel sat there and watched him disappear. After a minute, when she could no longer feel his presence, she threw her head back and screamed angrily, startling three birds and a deer. What was that attitude? The presumption? These weird marks that she hadn’t even gotten a say in! What in the name of the _lake_ was this rubbish behavior?!

She fell back onto the soft grass and stared at what stars were visible through holes in the leaf-cover. Ingwë and Finwë had already consummated their oaths, she knew; she’d ask them about their Valar. Maybe it was just Oromë who was an overbearing bastard – and if not, they should speak to those who were planning to take the oath in the coming months and tell them to add certain clauses to the swearing.

She rolled over and pressed her face into the grass uncomfortably, ignoring the blades prickling her, and taking a moment for the first time to feel within herself to the little light which they had kindled in her core. It felt like a little candle-flame, as tiny as could be, and she smiled to herself. Dealing with Oromë _might_ be worth it for the prospect of so many children to raise. And one day soon, she could have them with Finwë as well! He’d accept her proposition before long, she knew he would, and then they could make a family of their own.

She stayed there for hours, dreaming of the future, and when Rúmil found her in the evening she was still naked in the grass with new colors moving slowly over her limbs.

* * *

**Year 1101 of the Years of the Trees**

**_The Valar have summoned the Quendi to Valinor; the Quendi have not yet accepted._ **

_\--_

A runner had arrived earlier in the evening with news of another attack, and immediately Iminyë Indis had called together a group of their most able fighters to go as support and track the creatures. That had been a day and a half ago, and the village in question was only an hour’s walk away; it was an unusually long time to be gone. Thus Míriel and Rúmil had stood together most of the day, hands clasped in anxiety and awaiting the return of their fighters. They stood as statues on the edge of the settlement, ignoring mealtimes and the singing hours, until finally they saw in the dark distance a group of runners. It was the same group that had set out; not a single elf was missing.

Míriel remarked quietly, “They must have either experienced great success or found nothing to help with.”

Rúmil nodded. “No matter the reason, I am glad that we have not lost further people this week.”

Morwë and Elmo and Rog skidded to a stop, panting, covered in blood and sweat and soot and with the two males close behind. Rúmil went to Morwë immediately, seeking a wound to blame for the blood on her front.

Míriel in turn grabbed Elmo, worried by a grotesque gash on her jaw that exposed bone and still leaked blood. “Oh, by the lake! Off to Evranîn with you. That must be treated before it festers.” She ran her hands down the rest of Elmo’s torso, making sure there wasn’t anything else to worry about, and then nudged her in the right direction.

Elmo turned and tossed Rog her bladed staff as she left in the direction of Evranîn’s healing house. Rog caught it without trouble and then let Míriel examine her unworriedly, as she had far less ichor on her tough clothes and no visible wounds on her body. Míriel dusted her shoulder off with a pat, and they turned to Aranwë and Tórin, the last of the group who were fortunate to have the least grime on them.

“You are both well?” They nodded, still panting. “Good; off with you, then, and we will be expecting the story at the next meal.”

Rog bid them go on without her. Addressing Míriel, she said, “You did not have to wait up for us, Tatië, but we thank you for it as always. Your care goes far.”

Míriel smiled. “Of course, Roka. How went it?”

The warrior frowned, brow creasing. “Horrible. The village was wiped out. We arrived to find the creatures feasting; slavering over the bodies – I think perhaps fifteen had settled there, and four with children. Nelyar. I only recognized one; I think they split off from the main settlement about ten years ago. I’ll speak their name to Quennar later for the records, and hopefully that runner can tell us who the others were. The names of their little ones might be lost, though,” she said, saddened at the tragedy of it.

Míriel sent a prayer to the lake. _Take your children home; soothe them and shelter them where we could not._ “Thank you, Roka. I know how hard this is. Were you able to destroy the creatures?”

Rog nodded darkly. “Oh, yes. Ten more over and done with, horrid things. But the fortifications did nothing to stop them; they’re growing stronger,” she murmured. Then she changed the subject, watching Morwë cringe at something Rúmil said.

“Tórin is growing strong, you know; I had no worries about bringing him along. Iminyë-Indis chose well with that one,” she grinned. “I’ll have to let her know.” She slung her long hammer and Elmo’s staff together across her shoulders and gave a little bow to Míriel before turning and following the néri inside the bounds of the settlement.

Míriel turned to her brother and Morwë, who were now crouched on the ground. “Do I need to summon a litter?”

Rúmil shook his head. He’d pulled out a roll of linen bandages from who-knows-where and was reaching around Morwë’s chest awkwardly to wrap the slash he’d found. “She’ll be fine – some food and rest, that’s all.”

“Yes, I’ve learnt a new lesson, even; don’t forget that you have breasts when you go to lean back to avoid a set of claws,” Morwë laughed. “Oops. Damn things really get in the way.”

Míriel chuckled. “Indeed. Thank you for your valor, and perhaps next time wear that new boiled-leather cuirass that Mahtan designed?”

She perked up. “Mahtan?”

Rúmil poked her. “Stop moving! Mahtan lives in the settlement two hours west; his wife is the weaver that makes the tough tunic-cloth. She’s lately gotten him to try molding armor for your hunts, since he can forge the findings for it. I thought you knew this; I told Enel last week.”

“Ah, well,” she laughed guiltily, moving her arms out of Rúmil’s way. “He’s been so involved in the writing-system you two are trying out; he’s barely said two words to me over the last few days! It would be funny if he didn’t keep forgetting to eat at meals. He fell asleep at his desk yesterday and almost knocked his bark sheets into the fire!” She smiled fondly.

Rúmil tied off the bandage and leaned back onto his haunches. “Ah, sorry about that; I’ve asked him to edit what I have so far. I didn’t realize he’d fallen entirely into it!”

“Anyway, you’re good to go; I don’t think anything will fester. Check your breast tomorrow when you change the bandages, and if anything looks off, take it to Evranîn.” He pushed himself up and helped Morwë up after. “And go take a wash in the lake, if you can stand the temperature tonight! You’re filthy.”

Míriel laughed as Morwë rolled her eyes. “Tata! Let the nís be. We can always ask Olwë if they can borrow his heated bath. I’ll chop the wood myself.” She linked arms with them both and let Morwë set their pace back through the gates. Tomorrow they would give the news to everyone and convene to decide what to do about the attacks.

Oromë’s offer to the Quendi had become more and more tempting as the years passed; new grotesque creatures had been appearing, better at killing than ever, and she despaired every time someone reported one looking a little too elf-like. They might soon be obliged to swear the oaths that had been offered, if only to preserve the future of their race.

Rúmil sensed her disquiet and ran a hand over her arm, offering a touch of contentment through their bond. “Finwë said he would be cooking tonight, you know; you might catch him at the small-stove if you think you are presentable enough!”

Míriel blushed and smiled. She pulled her arm out of his and gave him a light slap, scolding. “Finwë would think I was presentable were I still completely naked and smeared with mud, so I will, thank you. Be a good lad and take Morwë to her home, if you please, and I will go and fancy myself in love for a bit. I’ll see you both at the evening meal!” She watched their backs as they headed off and then turned towards the large communal kitchens.

Lenwë nearby was walking in that direction with an armful of leafy greens, so she jogged over to them and offered to share the load. They accepted happily, and she launched into an update and explanation of Morwë’s wound that was as funny as she could make it. They’d all rather laugh over a mostly harmless tit-wound, after all, than a village full of dead parents and children slaughtered in a single morning.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- miriel’s punk tats absolutely inspire a wave of body-painting and, eventually, tattooing


	16. the ichor drenching the blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor planned to fight with Elendil’s men in the Last Alliance, but plans go astray; he ends up fighting furiously alongside the Galadhrim on the plain that would one day host the Dead Marshes, and some weeks into the battle hears familiar Song…
> 
> Featured characters: Maglor, Daeron  
> Secondary characters: Thranduil, Malgalad, Evranîn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: death (battle)  
> \- this chapter follows a few years after the first scene in ch. 12  
> \- the bolded quote comes from “The Passage of the Marshes,” LotR book 4, ch.II.  
> \- it follows that this chapter is probably pretty depressing (sorry) but I hope that it’s also at least a little bit cool! maglor and daeron survive don’t worry  
> \- gollum says to frodo and sam that the battle of dagorlad lasted for months; we know that the siege of barad-dûr after it lasted for seven years. this chapter shows merely the beginning of a long, long war, but it was also the worst of it.  
> \-- if anyone’s been reading this and going “ugh I wish it was polite to correct mistakes” please do go ahead and let me know! I have no beta and I’d love this story to be cleaner than it is lol; editing is welcome.  
> \-- also!!! i've now drawn an (almost) full character lineup, if you'd like visual reference. :) https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/640060911127871488/alright-here-they-are-everyone-twenty-five-of
> 
> Name guide:  
> Morannon – The Black Gate

**Year 3434 of the Second Age**

**_Five weeks into the Battle of Dagorlad_ **

\--

Daeron had lied; Maglor knew it for sure weeks into the battle when he heard in the distance faint strains of archaic Nandorin war-song ringing with power. He cursed his sometimes-lover’s foolishness, and in the same breath thanked the Valar quietly that he’d seen the Silvan army dive into the early skirmishes on the plain and decided to follow. He had hardly needed the experience he had to know that it would not end well, and he did not value his own life highly enough to think that helping them was not worth it.

He had shoved on a helmet and made his way into the fray as soon as he could, trusting in the Nelyarin features he received from his grandmother to protect him from an Elven sword to the chest at the least provocation. He had convinced himself to fight with the Men rather than Elrond’s group, but the exiles from Númenor did not need arms so badly as the Galadhrim did at the moment of his decision - and now it was weeks and weeks that he had been bleeding on the plain with them and it was too late to go back.

And then he had heard the singing over the clashing of swords and resounding yells and known the voice too well. He surveyed his surroundings and saw that his temporary regiment was doing well enough; his absence would not doom them. With renewed fervor he began fighting his way toward Daeron’s Song, waving off warnings from the elves closest. Ducking a troll-club, he ran and caught the reins of a horse whose rider must have been killed and swung onto it with great dexterity. The great brown mare tried to keep galloping away, but he grasped her firmly with his legs and calmed her with words learned from his brother long ago.

He dug in his heels and quickly had her rushing for the other flank, where he could hear the singing. Arrows came at him – the hazards of suddenly presenting a higher target - and he sung a low note in response, shattering them harmlessly inches from his face. He ignored the pieces and pressed close to the horse’s back; she was hands too small for a rider like him but she would do, especially in comparison to his own legs after so many days.

Maglor wished suddenly that he had a spear; his reach was long and his swords keen, but nothing could compare to a polearm when it came to fighting on horseback. He cut orcs out of his path with abandon, the wind generated by their passage revitalizing him.

And finally he saw Daeron, filthy and drawn, singing steadily behind a shield and holding a long curved blade of the kind that the Galadhrim wielded. His Song was beating at the orcs around them more effectively than any battalion, holding them back and making them cry out and fall to the ground, but he was tired. As he had told Maglor years ago, his strength was in warding, not offense - and yet he was performing valiantly.

He was being defended by a small group of elves who had clearly seen his skill, but they too were weary, and the dark creatures that besieged them must have realized some time ago that the singer was the thing hampering them so badly. Another group of elves were to be seen some hundreds of feet away, also fighting toward the little knot with Daeron at its center, but in one glance Maglor was left desperately glad that he had come.

He spurred on his horse and whistled. “If any of you have a lance, she is yours!” he cried, and rode a passel of orcs down, beheading any that came close enough. The mare skidded to a stop and he swung down, exchanging the seat quickly with a young blond-haired lancer. He hoisted the nér up, noting the elaborate armor he wore, and then took his place in the defensive circle. He looked Daeron over, glad to see only fatigue rather than wounds.

He took a deep breath and parsed out the tune, recognizing it but not knowing where from. He joined in, the effect strengthened, and asked the land itself to fight with them. Orcs began losing ground to great hollows that suddenly appeared and holes that swallowed them down; air vanished from their lungs and refused to be taken in; dust rose up and choked them without mercy. He pleaded with the groundwater to rise up and drown them, but it was not to be; it stayed where it was, unmoved by his Song and knowing that it was not yet time for it to flood.

Maglor fought as he sang. Abruptly he felt a tug on his armor and turned his head; the elves around them were gesturing for him to get behind them. Perhaps they thought he would do better without the distraction of the blade? He could have fought garden-variety orcs in his sleep, but he saw the virtue in saving his energy and fell back to Daeron in the center. The lancer pranced around them on the mare, cutting down projectiles and keeping the line away from the guards when he could.

Maglor sheathed his second sword finally, ignoring the ichor drenching the blade, and reached for the Sinda’s arm. Daeron kept hold of his sword and shield but sank against him in enervation. Maglor linked their arms securely and pressed his back to Daeron’s, lending him strength as best he could and allowing their songs to mingle and swell with power. He had not planned to give free reign to his voice, his most dreadful weapon, in this war - but if his ancient friend had decided it was worth potentially revealing his presence, Maglor would do no less to protect him and destroy the enemy.

And thus the battle passed, Maglor singing terror and pain upon the enemy and Daeron dragging up wards and indiscernible shields to protect the bedraggled elven army they fought beside week after week.

When it finally ended - when the cheer went up at mid-day two months on - they fell into each other, and their tough little circle of defenders collapsed in tired deliverance.

\--

Night had fallen sometime in the hours in which the two agéd elves had been picking their way through the desolate battlefield. Maglor wasn’t sure what they were looking for, if they were even looking for anything in the first place. Daeron had been distant, showing little joy at their survival even as Maglor had kissed him jubilantly. The other soldiers’ disbelieving happiness had proven infectious; even their grim lancer had smiled as he received kisses from the other soldiers, and Maglor felt that he had not had so many hugs from strangers since his presentation at court in Tirion as a youth.

The rest of the day had passed quickly, and now that the darkness swallowed them up it was harder to see the joy in survival. The host that Daeron had been singing for had proven to be Amdír’s; the people whom Maglor had left behind Oropher’s; and the fraction that remained of both was now gathered around campfires on the plain some distance away from where the thick of the fighting had taken place. The injured were still being collected off of the field and it was difficult to differentiate the unconscious from the dead.

Maglor stepped heavily over another body and then turned, realizing that Daeron was no longer beside him. The old elf had stopped next to the corpse of a soldier, her long silver hair spread out over her back where she had fallen, and was staring at it listlessly. As Maglor watched, he crumpled, folding into his knees and beginning to sob soundlessly.

Both of them had exhausted their Song many days ago; it was perhaps only by lingering blessings of Vána that Daeron, never a warrior, had survived any of it after that. It was a feeling that Maglor had been horribly familiar with in the previous Age and had hoped never to encounter again, but here they were, voiceless and soundless. He would have given much for a war-harp again, or a set of battle-pipes!

He walked slowly back to his companion and sank down with him, reaching out and tucking the silver head into his chest. He tilted his eyes to the stars and left them there, mindful of the terrible shaking of Daeron’s shoulders in the circle of his arms.

Maglor would have cried too, he thought, save that he was sure his tears for the battle-dead had been exhausted sometime in the First Age; he was utterly drained.

He focused instead on those whom they had saved by their presence, the flickering campfires spread across miles to the Morannon in the distance. He tried to pass these feelings on to Daeron but could not tell whether they made it through the barrier of his despair.

He could see Malgalad’s body a few yards away; the ornate armor and white-and-gold cloak, now bloody and rent, were a dead giveaway for Amdír’s general. He could only hope their souls were at peace, now; that every Elven body on this battlefield was empty of its fëa and that they had long since followed the summons of Námo to the Halls of Mandos.

Eventually, Daeron calmed from release and exhaustion and Maglor kept watch as he slept. Sprawled insensate on Maglor’s lap as he was, his long braid messy from weeks without care, Daeron looked uncannily like the dead nís beside them.

Maglor eventually reached across him to close her eyes through her helmet, and they stayed there, the three of them like a grotesque picture of a small family consumed and weary beyond their means.

As the sun rose and crested over the Ered Lithui to the east, he caught the faint strains of mourning-song. The surviving soldiers had taken it up and were sending off the souls of the dead as the dawn came; they would do it again in the evening and repeat it every rise until they were called to fight in the siege ahead of them. Maglor summoned what sound he could and joined, scratchy and hoarse, but he did not know the words to their version of it; merely the ancient tune.

It was sorrowful and grim, yet hopeful; it asked for the Valar to guide the dead on their journey to the Halls, and to let them sleep peacefully if they did not want to go. His voice protested after a few short minutes and eventually he stopped. When the sunlight crept forward and reached the armor of the fallen, he closed his eyes, waiting for the glare to die down. He fell asleep then, just for a little while, uncomfortable but unable to resist.

When he woke, body stiff, the field was lit fully by the strong afternoon sun. His eyes wandered over its contours, and were drawn back to the nís in front of them. Her armor gleamed under its blood and dirt, one of hundreds sprawled in death across the plain. Her features looked familiar in the light; classically Sindarin, shadows slanting across her helmet’s nosepiece and throwing her cheekbones into sharp relief. Through the fog of memory he realized abruptly – awfully - that he knew her face.

This was Evranîn, who had fought at their side during the War of Wrath; Evranîn, who had taught Elrond everything she knew about healing; Evranîn, who had taken one look at him holding a sword to Elwing and run at him screaming death.

Evranîn, who had Awoken with Daeron’s group in the shallows of Cuiviénen.

He sat there staring at her face as Arien moved over them. He didn’t know how she had come to be fighting with Amdír’s troops; he hadn’t even thought of her in an Age. He had assumed that she had gone to Lindon along with Elrond early in the Second Age, and then perhaps followed him to Rivendell. If she had instead sought out her kin again…

Whichever way her path had taken her, it had ended, here on the plain of Dagorlad at the gates of Mordor, and Daeron had been the one to find her. Had he known she was here? Maglor did not want to ask. Evranîn, the reluctant healer who had never shied away from battle in any form, was gone.

He was pulled out of his morose contemplation when Daeron jerked, waking up finally and probably from a nightmare. Maglor brushed a hand over his forehead, calming him somewhat, and helped him up. He stretched his legs out to ease the tension once the weight on them had been relieved, and once he had feeling again rose to join him. Daeron did not speak with either his voice or his hands, so Maglor waited as they made their way back to camp. They needed rest – far more than they had gotten - and more bedrolls would be available now in the afternoon than once the night had come on.

Their circle of defenders was awake to welcome them back, trading food and drink at the edge of camp. Maglor nodded in greeting and asked after a quiet place; they directed him to a red-striped tent near the washing area.

Maglor drew Daeron inside, avoiding sleeping bodies, and they quietly helped to take each other’s armor off. Daeron had still not said anything, and clung to him tightly as they lay down on a blanket in the corner. Maglor rearranged the silver braid and gave not a thought to his own messy crown before he pulled another thin blanket over them. He let Daeron shove a leg between his own, shivering, and press his face into his neck. Maglor put his arms around him and a hand on his head and tucked his cheek into the dirty silver hair.

They fell asleep wrapped uncomfortably in each other, reassured that the other was alive despite it all.

\--

They were woken in the evening by the exchange of elves in the tent as a new batch arrived to find bedding and rest. Daeron rose first, which heartened Maglor, he and pulled the taller elf up. Maglor rubbed at his eyes and yawned but followed Daeron out of the tent agreeably, swiping two servings of jerky from a table and shoving one into his mouth. He pocketed the other when he saw that Daeron had something on his mind.

He caught up to the Sinda and they continued out of the camp and back into the battlefield. The nearest bodies had been gathered while they were asleep, ready to be buried, but there were so many in the distance that Maglor expected some would be left before what remained of the army moved beyond Cirith Gorgor to meet up with Gil-Galad’s soldiers on the plateau. They would have to be buried after the end of it all – whatever and whenever that end would be.

As the singing began again behind them faintly, Daeron finally stopped amidst the dead and ran a hand through his hair, looking to the east and then the west as if charting the route a houseless soul might take.

Then he cast his gaze around to the dead surrounding them and took up the mourning-song softly, only as much as his own voice could withstand. However soft, it still had power, and was Song in the ways that the noise around the campfires was not. This was a message that the Valar would surely hear.

As Maglor watched, Daeron began moving gently through the field of bodies, singing to each and all of them. He did it with such grace and emotion that it occurred to Maglor that the song, older than his birth, must have first been sung by this very elf: the first singer, the first elf to utter sound in purposefully pitched and rhythmic ways.

This song connected their battlefield, a site of tears and slaughter, through every other Elven loss over thousands of years, following a trail that led back to the first death at Cuiviénen that Daeron had grieved and needed to honor. Maglor felt like he was seeing it all, all at once; and it was too much.

This tune was part of the collective memory of the Quendi, something every elf was taught from birth; how many times had he sung it? How many times had Daeron?

He finally found himself crying, unable to process the sheer loss around him but finding an outlet in the grief of his friend. This song was practically as old as their race and yet was still being sung; worse, he knew that this would not be the last time.

This desolation stayed with him as the dusk deepened and Daeron continued walked amongst the descendants of his kin. He asked that they not linger; that they find peace and solace; and slowly Maglor saw soft lights began to gather. They became brighter as night fell, and in the darkness lent a haunting feel to the stony plain, softening it and making it look a place out of time. His vision hazed, and he was not sure whether it was his eyes or the land itself being affected; but he knew the earth and water beneath were learning the story of this battle. Daeron was asking the very land around them to mourn, to remember each life that had been taken and to provide a home for those who could not bring themselves to leave.

Maglor stood at the edge of the Song for a long, uneasy night, watching Daeron, eventually too far away to hear but feeling the power of the working nonetheless. He often forgot that they were generations apart; it was the way of the Eldar to ignore such differences. And yet he saw their gap now clearly, freshly, as if for the first time. When Daeron eventually came back, Maglor folded him into his arms, offering what comfort he could.

The surviving captains were likely finally finding a chance to breathe and review the battle; and Maglor knew that he and Daeron would have to leave the camp before anyone inquired too deeply into their identities. But they stood there together in the light of dawn, taking a last moment of melancholic peace in each other’s arms.

Many of these elves would one day be re-embodied in Valinor, but some would remain. Over thousands of years, the land might fill with water and smog, but it would remember, and the lights would remain as long as the souls did.

\--

**_‘I don’t know,’ said Frodo in a dreamlike voice. ‘But I have seen them too. In the pools when the candles were lit. They lie in all the pools, pale faces, deep deep under the dark water. I saw them: grim faces and evil, and noble faces and sad. Many faces proud and fair, and weeds in their silver hair.’_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thranduil (the lancer in the elaborate armor) only realized who the singers were many years later during a conversation with elrond. his annoyance at protecting maglor is tempered by the fact that he was also protecting daeron, one of his ancient idols; elrond, meanwhile, is crying mad that maglor’s been fighting alongside him all these years and never ducks in to say hello so he can punch him properly.  
> \- you can thank @mallornin on tumblr for inspiring the bagpipes reference haha


	17. eldest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Círdan and Lenwë enjoy a warm summer day under the stars, in the peaceful but fraught time when the Quendi are considering a move to Valinor and the first of the oath-takers are creating their new children.  
> Two Ages later, Sauron burns through the Gardens of the Ent-Wives. Yavanna and Lenwë feel the pain of this keenly, and each will do what they must… 
> 
> Featured characters: Lenwë, Círdan, Treebeard  
> Secondary characters: Olwë, Leaflock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- reminder that one Valian year is ten solar years lol  
> \- bolded quote at the end is from LotR (TT) book 3 ch. 4, “Treebeard”. I re-read all his sections in advance of this and he is just *delightful*. what a good child  
> \- relatedly, olwë is a great planner and likes organizing things and making lists. he would, therefore, be right chuffed to hear that treebeard remembered his lists even after eleven thousand years. rúmil, on the other hand, would be horrified to know that anybody recalls his first attempts at teaching 
> 
> Name guide:
> 
> Nówë – Círdan  
> Elwë – Elu Thingol  
> Endórë – Middle-Earth  
> Culúnalta – Malgalad  
> Onyalië – Ents  
> Findelëlassë – Finglas – Leaflock  
> Fangornë – Fangorn – Treebeard

**Year 1105 of the Years of the Trees**

**Less than one Valian year after the first of the oaths was sworn**

\--

The day was soft and calm. The breeze ruffled green grass gently as the stars shone brightly overhead; the temperature was warm enough that nobody had felt like working. The village was thriving – finally - having entered a span of peace brought on by Valarin protection, which led to many of its people considering the second offer that had been made. If their dangerous homeland could feel this lovely – how much lovelier would the peace of Valinor be, succored by divine providence?

Nówë and Lenwë in particular had given up getting anything done from the moment they had risen. Elwë had taken one look at his wobbly brother and told him to go back to bed, while across the village Morwë had patted her sibling on the head and laughed before leaving to hunt with Míriel.

Lenwë gave their sister an annoyed glare, watching as she chattered with Míriel as the two receded into the distance. Then they sighed, hauled their rebelliously slow body up, and went off to find a sunny spot to lay in for a while. They had a particular place in mind, a little oasis near the edge of the forest with a bubbling brook and a perfectly plush moss pile.

Upon arrival, they found that they were not the only elf with the same idea: Nówë was lying on the moss already, blissed out in the starlight with his loincloth and jewelry a few yards away, and his brother Olwë was sitting in the stream talking to the minnows. Whether or not the minnows understood him was in question, but he had been testing out his newfound empathy on any manner of living thing he could find and thus Lenwë was not surprised by this turn. They greeted him with a smile, receiving a brief nod before the minnows were again in his focus, and then walked over to the moss.

They nudged Nówë with their unclad foot. “Would you mind terribly sharing your patch for a while?”

The silver-haired elf opened one eye. Seeing who it was, he grinned. “Please!” He wiggled over to one side and put his head back into the cool green plush, watching as Lenwë joined him. “You can toss your cloth too, if you like. No young ones around to scandalize!”

Lenwë knelt and patted the moss. “No, I’m more comfortable with something between my thighs. It’s too humid out,” they complained, stretching out in contentment.

“I’m surprised I even got this far out of the village without collapsing; Morwë laughed herself silly watching me try to get up this morning.” They put a hand to their bare chest and closed their eyes, and then felt Nówë’s hand cover their own.

Their consciousnesses met briefly and then observed the little soul within. A small wave of gentle power washed out like a slow _hello_ , and Nówë felt the moss beneath them grow a little spongier in happy response. He withdrew and slung an arm over Lenwë, pulling them close and pressing their foreheads together.

“It’s almost time, isn’t it.”

Lenwë nodded, eyes still closed and relaxed in the soft warmth surrounding them. “Lady Yavanna said it was coming soon, and I haven’t been able to leave our house most days in the last few weeks. Maybe today is the calm before the storm.”

Nówë worked his hand into the honey-brown hair on the back of the other Quendë’s head soothingly. “You’ll be the first of us to bring one of these Children to life. It will be the very eldest of a large family, you know!”

Lenwë opened their eyes and watched their friend. “I hope that they _will_ be a family, just as we are. But I do not know how the Valar feel for each other, and if that will influence these souls. I also have seen that the children of our race do not always act as we do, Nówë, as siblings birthed from the same great lake-mother. I worry that all of these children born of different parents may come to live apart in place and in heart.”

Their companion watched them with faint sadness. “I heard from Nurwë that you do not want to live in Valinor.”

Lenwë shook their head faintly. “I’m unsure, that’s all. Endórë is dangerous, yes, but it is home. Even-” they cast about for something to explain how they felt. “Even if there are trees in this Valinor, Nówë, they will not be the same trees. They will have led different lives, and live on different things, and speak different words. I do not want to leave what we have behind.

“And yet all the same - I am so afraid, and the peace which the Valar have brought us is too good to leave. Nurwë thinks it is worth staying here, and Morwë wants to go to Valinor – I feel as though I am caught in the middle.” They paused, searching for a compromise. “Do you think the Valar would consider allowing a second group to journey, later on…?” _If life here gets worse_ was the unspoken addendum.

Nówë frowned. “I don’t think that is quite how the offer works. These beings seem to have a different way of interacting with our world than we do, my sibling. I’ve only met Lord Ulmo a few times yet, but it is already clear to me that he sees life and land rather differently. He _breathes_ and the sea changes; he touches my skin and I become the water itself, lost if not for him. I don’t think time and place exist in quite the same way for them,” he trailed off.

Lenwë sighed softly and changed the subject, uncomfortable with the idea that so little of the future was within their control. That they had pledged themselves to these awesome beings with so little understanding of each other’s lives.

They wondered aloud, “Your brother does not feel as though he is Creating yet. Is his Vala displeased, or does she possess a patience that the others have not displayed?”

Nówë snorted and snuggled further into the plush moss, which was now several inches taller than it had been when Lenwë had first lay down. “He asked the lady Nienna to wait to conceive until his wife has given birth. I know now how different this is from Elven pregnancy,” he ghosted a hand over his own core, feeling the small light within, “but he shows his typical pragmatism in not wanting both of them carrying at the same time!”

Lenwë smiled. “Will Creating with a new babe around be much easier, though? Quendi grow so slowly, and these souls need so much attention…”

“I thought the same! But Elulindo said that he would be willing to live with them again for a while to help. He’s nigh thirty, and without a spouse – might as well help his parents through this, I suppose. I’m just glad they didn’t ask me! And Elwë is so averse to knowing more than he needs to about the whole process on either side that Olwë daren’t ask him. The looks I get from that nér, I swear to Eru…” He laughed. “I can’t wait until he finds a spouse that won’t put up with that attitude on child-making!”

A shadow fell over them then, blocking out the stars. “I heard my name. Have you been exchanging jealous remarks about my natural talents and good looks? If so, I feel that I must warn you that the fish had some remarkable affrontery to exchange concerning the two of you.” Olwë sat down behind Nówë, arranging his sopping wet skirts so that they fell heavily on top of his brother.

Nówë sighed in consternation and pushed the heavy fabric off of his head. He sat up slowly and rearranged his hair. “The punishment for what you have just done,” he paused solemnly, “is that you must now suffer to be my sleeping-pallet.” He grabbed Olwë in a hug and threw all his weight on his brother so that they keeled over into the grass, and then rearranged himself on top of the larger elf like a cat on a rug, soaking in wet warmth.

Olwë stared at the sky in resignation, arms sprawled out in the greenery. “Well, I suppose I deserved that.”

“Most assuredly,” Nówë slurred. “You’re very warm, and I’m going to nap for a bit now. Ta, Lenwë.”

On the mossy patch a few feet away, Lenwë smiled and stretched out, preparing for a nap of their own. They would be bringing a Maia forth, soon, and Yavanna would come to fetch them to her Halls – but for now, sleep. “Ta, brothers.”

* * *

**Year 3434 of the Second Age**

**_During the War of the Last Alliance_ **

_\--_

Lenwë ran, ran as fast as they could; and thought they had been on their feet for long days, still they persisted. They could feel their children’s pain, spreading through their soul – death, _death_ , grief, sorrow – something truly awful had happened. They tried not to let their thoughts dwell on remembered horrors, but though they had lived long years near the Orocarni, even villages there had received news of the rogue Maia that enjoyed spreading destruction in Melkor’s wake.

It was unbelievable to Lenwë that the Valar had never caught him and that no other had managed to destroy the spirit. They knew Sauron was powerful, a last destructive legacy of Finwë’s line, but they had never thought that their children might be touched by his fiery hand. If only they were gifted with Elmo’s speed or Culúnalta’s endurance, they might have made it earlier, but it had now been weeks since they had first felt Yavanna’s screams echo through them, and they despaired at what they would find.

They had passed the borders of Dorwinion days ago and were deep within the lands south of Eryn Galen now. They should have been in the middle of lush forest and plentiful gardens, but instead were panting their way through burnt stumps and massive, charred plant-stalks. The land was ash around them, some fires still burning in last gasps, and horrid axe-wounds had been visible on the largest of the trees near the borders. What if- _what if_ , they thought, _this was the end_ _of them all?_

They slowed, coming to high slopes along a tributary and surveying the twisted, scarred land - and then spotted a few trees yet standing on its banks.

They breathed heavily as they sped up, sliding down ashy mud and eventually ending up on their ass near the smallest of the figures, oak-leaved and with golden veiny bark.

It moved, then, and grasped their arm with a cry, hauling them out of the detritus and muck and bringing them to its bark. It cried then, wordlessly and full of grief, and Lenwë pulled out their muddy arms from between the branches and hugged it back fervently, for it was one of the Onyalië and indeed one of their very own children.

“Findelëlassë!” they sobbed. “Oh, Eru, but I thought you all might be gone! I came as fast as I could, I am so sorry it was not sooner.” They wiped at their face with a dirty hand as Finglas released them, only to find themselves lifted high and enveloped by the eldest of their children. “Ai, Fangornë! I am sorry for this loss,” they choked out as leaves surrounded them.

“No, my parent,” Fangorn said slowly, with a great low sigh. “I do not think you could have stopped this tragedy. For war passed over these lands, which were once verdant and golden and are now brown and withered, and we ourselves were not here to fight it. We came looking for,” he switched languages suddenly, taking several minutes to say his wife’s name in Entish. It was rather longer than Lenwë had remembered it being, which only reminded them of how long it had been since they had talked.

“But we cannot find our wives, or any-one else, for that matter, and all of their trees and delightful fields are gone now,” he finished sadly, the light in his eyes dimming. “We have been here several days and wondering amongst ourselves what to do. We have no supplies to plant; we know not where our wives have gone; we know not if this war will continue to our own wood in the west.

“This land was covered in forest, last I was here, and now-! Now!” Fangorn could go on no further. There was too much death. He began weeping and pressed Lenwë to his chest, covering them in his leaves like they were the last thing he could shield from destruction.

Lenwë allowed it and buried their head in his wilted leaves for long hours, breathing through the grief and trying to sense how many of their children still lived. It was difficult, given the sheer scale of destruction around them that drowned their mind. Fangorn’s tears were their own.

Finglas tried to summon his composure to explain what they had heard on their journey here, but it took a very long time as he was not only battling the sap running out of his eyes but also speaking in Entish out of anxiety. Lenwë tried their hardest to keep listening, to record the events in their mind, but it was difficult.

 _The Ent-wives fled, folk told us, to the west and south and even the east,_ Finglas said, and yet Lenwë had not seen any of them coming from that direction. _Sauron burnt the forests because an alliance of Men and Elves were coming_ , had Lenwë heard about this? _Of course not_ , they said heavily, _I live so far away_ \- but then they couldn’t think about that, because the pain returned. They lived so close to the lands of their birth to avoid the ever-changing race of Men and the promise of Sauron, and yet in avoiding the western lands they had lost so many children in one fell blow.

Finglas broke off his story with a gasp, unable to go on. Lenwë reached out and grasped his branch-hand soothingly. “Yavanna mourns. She hears you; she feels you. Even more than I do, and I felt you many hundreds of leagues away,” they comforted. Misery was too close to their heart to do more. “Your siblings and their trees will be remembered by us, if no one else, and-”

They wished to say _I will stay with you as long as you need,_ but they knew too well that their children’s Valarin progenitor would ask for them soon. Too many of her Maiar had been killed in this sweeping attack; even after all this time, she could not afford to simply leave Lenwë be. They would be swept up into her Halls as soon as she broke far enough out of her misery to do so, and they would have to abandon these two children for some time afterward. It had not been safe enough in Middle-Earth to create new souls in Ages; they would have to do so in the security of the Halls, where the Ents could no longer roam after their permanent tree-bonding.

Instead, they forced out: “I will stay with you as long as I can.”

Fangorn nodded above them and made a broken sound, swaying where he was rooted. Finglas took up the slow rhythm and began a song of mourning. It spread along the earth, stumbling on every charred root and seed, used to being carried on a sea of voices and making do with only the two that remained.

Lenwë could feel that at least a few more of their children had survived – and of their children’s children, hopefully more, but they were less connected to their many descendants. Their living minds were all a mire of fear and desperation, though, and they couldn’t make out locations or names. They hadn’t even known Fangorn had survived, and he was the most deeply connected to their soul.

Reflexively, their hand squeezed the bark of his branch tighter, and he hefted them higher and closer in response. They could feel the Ent-song vibrating through his wood here, and it was the calming feeling they needed after weeks of anxiety and anguish.

They fell into an exhausted sleep to the sound of slow Entish heartache.

\---

**_‘Yet here we still are, while all the gardens of the Entwives are wasted: Men call them the Brown Lands now._ **

**_‘I remember it was long ago – in the time of the war between Sauron and the Men of the Sea […] ‘We crossed over Anduin and came to their land; but we found a desert: it was all burned and uprooted, for war had passed over it. But the Entwives were not there. Long we called, and long we searched; and we asked all folk that we met which way the Entwives had gone. Some said they had never seen them; and some said that they had seen them walking away west, and some said east, and others south. But nowhere that we went could we find them. Our sorrow was very great.’_ **


	18. imagining a world without

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finwë prepares to weather the storm of public opinion at Fëanor’s revelation of the oath and makes some realizations of his own under duress.   
> Ingwë and Olwë join him in Tirion for their own reasons - neither of which include actually comforting him in his time of need - and together they worry about the future.
> 
> Featured characters: Finwë, Ingwë, Olwë  
> Secondary characters: Fëanor, Indis, Elulindo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: descriptions of abuse  
> \- this is a continuation of the first scene from chapter 1. We saw Fëanor’s actions after he left Finwë’s office in chapter 14; now we see Finwë’s, and what it all leads to. chapter 7 follows a while after this one.  
> \- bolded section is from “The Earliest Version of The Story of Finwe and Míriel” in Morgoth’s Ring 3.II.  
> \- alternate summary: three old farts drink spiked tea around a table, unsure if finwë is being dramatic and overreacting or if maybe actually he’s under-reacting and shit’s gonna hit the fan soon! but hey, they’re kings, it’s their job to worry about the future (and then fuck around and find out)
> 
> Name guide:  
> Fëanáro = Curufinwë = Fëanor  
> Roka = Rog  
> Alaton = Daeron  
> Culúnalta = Malgalad  
> Macalaurë = Maglor  
> Nolofinwë = Fingolfin  
> Arafinwë = Finarfin

**Year 1470 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Twenty Valian years before_** **_Fëanor is exiled to Formenos_**

**_\---_ **

The very minute his son finally left the room, Finwë had stuck his head out of the window and whistled at the bird on the garden trellis. It cocked its head at him and then took to wing and flew in the window, alighting on the sill.

He backed up and sat down in his chair, beckoning it over, and then pulled open a drawer and found some seed for it. It picked at the food happily and looked up at him. A voice seemed to issue from its beak: “Thank you for the food, King Finwë! Is there something I can help you with?”

Finwë raised a brow. As if it had not been watching them argue! The little bird, finch-like but a little too blue to be natural, ducked its head in abashment. He relented, and said gently, “I would appreciate it if you would take to your father the news that my son may intend to foment further rebellion by making our oath public knowledge. That is one surprise which I would not wish on anyone.”

The bird chirruped and gave a confirmatory hop. “And if you could ask him to send a message on the wind to King Olwë of the same,” Finwë said, “I would be grateful.” He gestured out the window in a dismissal, and the bird stole a last seed and flew away for Taníquetil.

Maiar really were quite useful, but if Manwë had so many that some could afford to waste time as actual birds…well.

\---

Ingwë’s reply came on the breeze late in the day. _I have asked for leave to join you in Tirion_ , it whispered to Finwë. _It will be some weeks yet. Olwë has been apprised of the situation and I imagine that he will do the same. Thank you for the warning._

\---

Curufinwë had indeed made the oath public knowledge by announcing it at the monthly Assembly after several further and extremely heated arguments with his father. Finwë was especially annoyed at Rúmil by that time, for it was clear that Curufinwë had gone to speak with him and Rúmil had not disabused him of the notion.

His son had come back looking destroyed and had shut himself in the smithy for a full week. When he came out, his mind was set, and Finwë despaired.

He’d attended the assembly nonetheless, since it was his usual practice and his absence would send the wrong message; and yet nothing could have prepared him for the experience. The crowd was absolutely packed into the amphitheater, flowing out over its perimeter; some daring elves even scaled the columns to find seats.

It was rare that his eldest son attended and even rarer that he spoke – generally it was Nolofinwë who presided – and something about the tense atmosphere in the capital drew many more attendees than was usual. All paid rapt attention when he began speaking.

They fed off of Curufinwë’s fears, his charisma making his emotions their own, and when the oath was revealed Finwë realized that he was gripping his robes with white knuckles. His people were horrified; many threw him pitying, wide-eyed looks, and the assembly devolved quickly into shouting and anger. Finwë rubbed his thigh under the table and tried to focus on breathing as Curufinwë calmed them.

His son was not going to call on him to speak, he knew; and what had originally bothered him was now a blessing. He did not think he had the presence of mind to stand up and take back control at this point.

It was strange; he had no negative personal feelings about the oath except in relation to Míriel’s death, but for some reason his emotions were twisting oddly and felt beyond his control. He felt extremely anxious – was it because he didn’t know how his people would react? No, that couldn’t be; he’d expected most of this.

He knew the others disliked the constraints of the agreement and wished it could change, but he had never felt the urge to argue for it. But now- now – as his son described the oath and what they had given to it, it was like he was being allowed to see it from the other side. Could it be that he –

He rubbed his thigh with greater pressure, breathing very purposefully in and out and trying not to let it show that he had very little idea of what was happening outside of his own head. His fingers flexed.

Curufinwë was saying that they had been abused. Tortured.

_But we weren’t!_

That their bodies were not their own. Their lives were subject directly to the whims of the Valar.

_No, he lets me do anything I like when I am not with him!_

That the Valar lied to them.

_That’s certainly not true!_

That the Valar refused to let them re-negotiate anything.

_We knew that when we swore. It cannot be their fault that we did not realize what immortality truly meant. They have such different perceptions of life and time._

That they were not told that mental harm might result.

_They protected us physically! Roka and Elmo several times survived fights that would have killed them otherwise._

That his father the King is needed desperately in Tirion in a tense political situation caused precisely by the Valar’s relationship with the Eldar, and yet cannot refuse Aulë’s direct summons, at which point he will not be allowed to leave the Halls for a full year and cannot mediate amongst his people.

_But…_

That Lord Ingwë and Lord Olwë – he will not mention other names, but the Kings are essentially public property and thus expect to have little privacy – are subject to the same demands.

_But…_

That his own mother died as a result of this torment.

_I…._

That if they said no; if they broke the oath which they had made, then Valinor might no longer be a haven of safety – the Valar would either retract their protection, force them out, or even force the elf in question to uphold the oath which had been made in the gaze of Eru itself.

_I…._

That Lord Ingwë rarely attends public councils; he scorns touch of any kind, even from the clothing-makers; the light of the Two Trees in his eyes shines duller than anyone else’s.

_Oh, Eru._

Finwë put his head in his hands, covering his eyes, trying and trying and trying just to breathe evenly through the pounding in his head and the knot in his throat. The shouting surrounded him. Indis placed a hand on his lower back, out of sight of those gathered, and rubbed gently, unable to say anything.

Curufinwë was still speaking, his voice floating in and out of exclamations and yelling from those listening. Suddenly, Finwë could not take it anymore, and he pushed his chair out and stood up. He bowed swiftly to the audience, a last concession to etiquette, and walked as fast as he could back into the palace, which abutted the back of the amphitheater. Indis did not follow.

\-----

The three kings of the Eldar in Valinor were gathered around a simple table, glasses of alcohol and mugs of strong tea scattered on the surface. Finwë had combined his the second he’d sat down and now was slumped over with his head on the table. Olwë was leaning back on his chair at a severe angle, head hanging off the back of it with his arms raised and his hands kneading at his forehead. Ingwë was seated properly and had his hands on the table; he was rubbing his forefinger and thumb together absently with a desolate expression.

The door to the kitchen scraped open behind them, causing Finwë to jump, and Olwë’s eldest son Elulindo walked in bearing a tray of finger-food and a worried expression. He set it down on the rough table and looked around at the kings.

“This is really how you’re dealing with it?” he asked disbelievingly. Finwë and Ingwë stared at him blankly.

Olwë sighed and lifted his head up, settling back in his chair properly and reaching for his mug of tea. “Have you seen Fëanáro lately, son?”

Elulindo put a hand on his hip. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I just came from the emergency assembly at which he was asked to speak. They’re close to rioting, and yet you all sit here in the root cellar staring at walls! Forgive me if I do not seem to understand.”

Finwë, not having anything to say, put his head back on the table. Olwë looked like he might say something, but Ingwë spoke instead.

“We reap now the consequences of hiding the oath for so long and of asking those of you who knew not to tell anyone. It is very much a situation of our own design,” he admitted, propping his chin in a hand. Elulindo frowned, and Ingwë went on.

“We hide here, out of the sight of our people, because we are torn. I, for example, deeply wish to be free of the thing I have sworn, Elulindo; but my own people would have to be the ones to effect it. If they would decide as a majority, I might safely attempt to break it, since I hold it only for their protection. It would be a message that they no longer wish me to do so on their behalf,” he continued wistfully.

“But I am a king, and must put my own needs aside, and my people have shown no signs of rebellion. The Ñoldor, on the other hand; are fervent; and Finwë can neither support nor admonish them. To do the former would be to betray his oath; the latter, his people.” He picked up an empty glass and twirled it gently. “So we sit at this table instead, in a root cellar where nobody is shouting at us, and while away our time imagining our lot as if it had all gone differently.”

Elulindo stared at him awkwardly. “Well. I suppose that might be valid, then.”

Olwë laughed lightly, and more than a bit sadly, as if Ingwë’s words had been absurd. “Oh, you were imagining a world without? Fie on me for not spending time on that excellent idea! _I_ was pretending the rest were here and thinking ‘oh, Lenwë would be steaming in a corner; Culúnalta would comfort us; perhaps Avanië would be knocking back an entire barrel of Daurin’s Finest on top of the table, while Alaton would be on his second cask, and distracting me terribly with wandering hands-”

His son interrupted him. “Stop it right there, I did _not_ want to hear that. I’m leaving, I’ll let you know if anything happens the rest of the day, and I do expect to see you at dinner if nothing else. I’ll be with Macalaurë and Arafinwë in the green sitting-room, if you actually emerge and want something.” He turned and left in a huff, closing the door slightly harder than needed and throwing them back into dim half-light.

Finwë moaned into the table. “I could use Alaton as a distraction right now.”

Ingwë smiled. “Is Rúmil going to join us at any point, or is he happy where he is? And has anyone heard from Roka?”

The Ñoldoran groaned again. “I haven’t talked to Roka in a while. She’s been working with Turukáno lately, I think. Curufinwë didn’t mention her name; she’s safe from it all. And Rúmil! I don’t want to talk about Rúmil. I expect he’s probably watching it all from his balcony, happy as a clam to be out of it.” He looked up and set his chin on the table. “Did you know, Curufinwë went to him and-”

Olwë cut him off, rolling his eyes. “ _Yes_ , you told us that hours ago. Keep track. Let’s talk about something else.”

Ingwë hummed and changed the subject. “I’m carrying again.”

Olwë looked at him dully. “My, all this stress must be terrible for the child.”

Ingwë rolled dim eyes. “Perhaps if I come out with some mutated horror, my lord will stop making me Create them,” he said. “There’s an idea.”

Finwë snorted. “What; make yourself so corrupted that they don’t even want what comes out?” He paused, contemplating. “Surely someone must already have tried that.”

Olwë considered it. “Eöl? Elmo? Definitely Roka; she and Tulkas clashed from the beginning,” he remembered. “You should ask. But if only we could know about the others! Are you sure your message-winds can’t reach them?” he asked Ingwë somewhat despondently. “Any news is good news. Mandos won’t even tell me if they’re all still alive.”

The Vanya shook his head. “The problem isn’t my words reaching them; I simply have no way of knowing their response. None of my Maiar are willing to cross the ocean, and I’ve never been able to determine if it’s an issue with their abilities or something that my lord ordered.”

“Mine can’t either,” Finwë offered, “but it could be other of those possibilities. I never thought to ask why. I don’t often see them, anyway.”

Olwë knocked his mug against the table in annoyance. “Yes, because you were always so content with your lot!”

Finwë pressed his forehead back to the table and determinedly ignored him, changing the subject again. “I don’t want another child. Look at the mess the ones I _have_ have gotten into.”

Ingwë laughed. “Yes, I saw Lalwen speaking with Curufinwë when I arrived! She’s taken up the cause as her own, hasn’t she. And yet I seem to recall you telling my lord years ago that you wanted _dozens_ of children: **'Lord, behold! I am bereaved; and alone among the Eldar I am without a wife, and must hope for no sons save one, and no daughter. Whereas Ingwë and Olwe beget many children in the bliss of Aman. Must I remain ever so?’** ” he quoted from prodigious memory.

“How far the mighty have fallen,” he finished with humor, picking up his mug of tea. “I think what you truly desire are babies. You should have gone into nursing; you could have been surrounded by little ones forever.”

Finwë looked at him with wide, envious eyes at the thought. Ingwë smiled into his tea.

Olwë put his mug down and crossed his arms, leaning heavily on the table. “Wait, it just occurred to me. If you’re Creating – how in Yavanna’s green valleys did you get Manwë to agree to let you journey here? He never lets you attend councils in this state.”

Ingwë’s expression dulled a little, and he lowered his mug back to the table and ran his fingers over the lip. “It’s not that he never lets me. I simply have never before agreed to his condition, which is to let him contact me and provide power whenever he thinks it necessary, even if I am with others in public.”

Olwë’s eyes widened in trepidation. “In _public_?”

Ingwë gave a little sigh and crossed his legs. “I’m not sure he would truly go that far, but the idea is distressing. I despise him doing it even when I am alone, but he agreed long ago not to breech me in Taníquetil when others are nearby. He sees this as practical, and to be true it _was_ a deal I agreed to. But I hadn’t an inkling that anything might ever be serious enough to need me to travel away from home while Creating, so I agreed.”

“And so you are hiding in my root cellar with me,” Finwë wondered.

“Indeed,” Ingwë agreed calmly. “Goodness knows neither of you will blink if all at once I begin wailing and writhing.”

Finwë wilted, and Olwë frowned. “Have a little bit more faith in us than that, old friend.” He tossed back the rest of his wine glass. “Eru, but you make me glad Lady Nienna can discern when I am upset, and generally avoids causing it!”

Ingwë put his head in a hand gently and watched his friend. “Speaking of: do they seem at all bothered by the unrest to you?”

Olwë shook his head. “Can’t tell. If they feel something, it surely isn’t grief. I mean, Aulë was definitely unhappy last I saw that Fëanáro has grown to distrust him, but I haven’t felt much more from any of the Valar that I tend to see regularly. And I’ve not seen any of them since the latest development,” he said.

“I’d imagine that either they’re worried something might actually happen to change the status quo, or they’re too confident in their power over us to imagine that mass discontent might actually go anywhere,” he postulated bleakly. “What, did Manwë not say anything to you before you left?”

Ingwë shook his head and finally reached for a cracker from the plate Elulindo had left them. “I suspect he knows that the Vanyar will never rebel against him. He took me to bed without a word the night before, and then in the morning simply wished me a safe, enjoyable journey,” he described, “and then came to me a dozen times in the carriage in the week that it took to travel.” He crunched down a little too forcefully on his biscuit.

Olwë grimaced and refilled his cup for want of something to do with his hands. Finwë had a blank look on his face that indicated his thoughts were far away, and he spent a few minutes tracing meaningless patterns on the table-top with a finger.

Ingwë sighed, finishing his cracker, and pulled the cheese plate to his side of the table. “At least your son has crowning taste in finger-food,” he complimented. “This is quite the nicest root-cellar experience I’ve ever had!”

Olwë rolled his eyes and took a piece of cheese from under the Vanya’s hands. “He’s quite trained; brings me cheeses whenever I look the least bit grumpy. It would be funnier if it didn’t work so well,” he mused. “Eärwen appreciated the habit deeply during her pregnancies, too. Clearly why Arafinwë chose to live with us permanently,” he laughed at Finwë. “The food-related comforts of the Ñoldorin court seem to be far outstripped by ours.”

Finwë sighed, too exhausted to rise to the bait, and all but flailed. “What am I going to _do,_ Olwë? I can’t do anything for my son or my people as it is, and then I must go to the Halls and who knows what he’ll say to them while I’m gone.” A horrible thought occurred to him, and he rose up and slapped his hands down on the table. “Melkor might take the opportunity to destabilize us again!”

Olwë chewed on his cheese, unbothered, and eyed him. “I think you’re listening to your son a little too much there, old friend.”

Finwë sank back down and kept at the topic, forgetting some of his worry in the wave of his anger. “You are as biased as I am, both of you; for Nienna sued for his pardon and Manwë believed it. Melkor does not try to twist the minds of your people but instead walked amongst mine for centuries spreading foul words. Did I not tell you that he tried to seduce Curufinwë?!”

“’Seduce’?” asked Ingwë slowly, putting down his cheese. “I don’t believe you described it to me in quite that way before.”

Finwë sighed deeply, frustrated. “I did not have the whole story before; I learned more of it after I sent your letters, and I suppose must have been remiss in completing it. Yes; in the telling, my son said many things that resembled what I recall Morwë speaking of, all those years ago. Graceful, exciting attraction and generous offerings – and then the realization of horrors revealed.”

“The explanation that had Nurwë pulling out of his agreement to swear the oath, you mean,” Olwë recalled slowly.

“That which triggered our divide,” Ingwë added, sighing. “And thus did we become the Eldar and the Avari. Do you think that is where this leads, Finwë king?” he asked seriously, formally.

The Ñoldoran shook his head. “He wanted my son to do something awful, Ingwë; I know not what, for he would not tell me, but the Silmarils of his have the power to move worlds, I am awfully sure, and I think that he has begun to do it. What if Melkor _wanted_ this to happen? What if this unrest is his fault?” he said, anxiety fully returned.

“I do not think that he planted the seeds of discontent in your son’s heart,” Ingwë mused softly. “But I do think that they flowered by his presence. I fear you may be right.”

Olwë breathed out heavily. “Oh, river and sea,” he whispered. “I thought the current events were a coincidence; a distraction that would pass. What is knowledge of that oath, all things considered? But if you two are right; if Melkor is to blame – there is no way that we will make it through this intact. Our society-” he exhaled, pausing to work through this thoughts. “The peace we have so intently cultivated will collapse. Even weakened, he is unpredictable, and too skilled at sowing chaos.”

Finwë looked at him, expression wretched. “My son has spoken of leaving the protection of Valinor and seeking the freedom of Endórë. How can I possibly impress onto him the horrors we experienced there?”

Ingwë watched him, sympathetic. “Your children are too young to understand what we sacrificed to gain this realm, I suppose; you have told them now of our largest sorrow, and still they ignore its meaning and fight instead about its making.” he sighed, swirling his glass again. “My people by and large will not follow if he goes, I know.”

“And few of mine would,” Olwë continued. “They desire no other home but the shores of Eldamar and trust deeply in the Valar to keep us safe **.** But yours have been inflamed, I fear, and if this is indeed a working of Melkor - then perhaps by his power and your son’s will our peoples be sundered once more.”

It was a dread pronouncement, but one that rang with truth, sorrowing them all to know it. Finwë set his head on his arms atop the table again, burying his face, and Olwë downed another glass, his own grief magnified by the sensing of theirs. Ingwë sat, thinking, memories of the past twining with worries of the future in his mind, and then lost himself entirely as he felt Manwë’s power surround him again without warning.

\----


	19. lay me down in starlight and darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel proposes to Erestor (finally), but Erestor has several things he needs to share before he can let himself say yes.  
> (And then all too soon, Varda calls and he must say goodbye.)
> 
> Featured characters: Erestor, Glorfindel, Elrond  
> Secondary characters: Varda, Evranîn, Maedhros, Maglor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- in this house we are not LACE-compliant!! (if that bore repeating)  
> \- glorestor stans please rise; today we will be paying tribute to the pairing that brought me into the Silm fandom in the first place  
> \- this ended up being too big for one chapter so this plot will continue in ch. 21 (unless I move it for organization purposes; I've written through 26 right now and am considering re-sorting them...)
> 
> Names:  
> Laurë – Laurëfindel - Glorfindel  
> Sorontar - Thorondor

**December of the Year 3019 of the Third Age**

**_The War of the Ring has recently ended; Sauron is dead, and all are celebrating._ **

**\--**

Glorfindel stepped through sunbeams gracefully as he approached the garden. It was lunchtime and he was finally able to take a break; and the second he had walked into the main hall Elrond had looked at his face and pointed in the direction of the garden by the largest waterfall. _Erestor is that way,_ his expression said fondly. Glorfindel, who expected he looked rather harried, bowed his thanks and followed the finger.

Erestor was sitting at one of the garden tables, heavy winter robes draped carelessly over his chair and his long hair hanging down over his shoulders. The advisor almost never left it loose during the day, and Glorfindel felt speechless; abruptly full of love at the way that the dark strands caught the light and at the intensity of Erestor’s concentration.

The councilor was using his little pince-nez to look over documents, some weighed down around the edges with pebbles, and carefully tabulating the staff roster. It was changing a great deal given the responsibilities, promotions, transfers, and income shifts that came with the new year and the occupant turnover that Imladris was experiencing. Another dozen had left last week, heading to the Havens with Gildor as their guide.

He looked up at Glorfindel as the captain approached and beckoned him to the adjacent seat. “Please,” he said, “but don’t disturb the table!”

Glorfindel laughed and sat down, spreading his legs comfortably and leaning against the armrest. “I would never.”

“You’re on break? Is it lunchtime already?” asked Erestor worriedly.

“Yes, you’ve lost all track of time again! But I had a special announcement to make today, if you have the time,” Glorfindel responded gaily.

Erestor eyed him and then slowly put down the papers. “Of course,” he replied. “If this is anything like the last ‘announcement’…” He would happily accept more news of that sort!

Glorfindel leaned forward and gestured for Erestor to give him his hands. He did so, taking them off of the table and laying them in large, calloused fingers, which began to stroke them carefully.

With all the sincerity and consideration Glorfindel usually put into his speech – which was to say, a great deal – he began. “I love you, Erestor, and you know that of course, as I tell you it every day. I am infinitely glad we have finally come together and you have accepted my suit, for your presence cheers me immeasurably even when we are sitting miserably on horses out in the rain in the middle of a battlefield,” he went on, “and beyond possibility when we are sitting here in the garden in perfect peace and you are looking at me like you feel the same way.”

He smiled gently. “We have known each other for more than an Age, and been friends for most of it; I wish we had been lovers for longer than we have, but I would dearly like to marry you now despite our brevity. For I do not wish to ever be separated from you, and am whole now in ways I never was before I was reborn and sent back to Ennor.”

Erestor’s eyes swam, and he pulled a hand out of Glorfindel’s grasp to press to his mouth, closing his eyes tightly as he did so. He looked a great deal more emotionally torn than his lover had expected, given that their previous encounters in recent years had found in him thoroughly willing participation and love.

Glorfindel asked quietly, “Is this not something you want to hear right now?”

His love breathed out in shock and shook his head. “No! No. That isn’t it, Glorfindel, please.” He looked up and met blue eyes, finding the strength with which to muster and explain himself. “I love you deeply, Laurë, but- I am- beholden to another,” he said haltingly.

Glorfindel frowned, extremely confused, and Erestor went on before he could ask.

“I have never felt so strongly about a lover that it came to the point where I needed to tell them, and I have been avoiding it with you thus far. Apprehension, not a lack of feeling,” he clarified.

“But-” he stopped and pulled away, face tilting downward and eyes scrunching as if he could not stand to say it. He took off the glasses sitting on his nose and pressed them to the table, giving himself a moment of something else to do.

Glorfindel gave him time beyond that. He sat patiently in the afternoon sun, watching the breeze ruffle branches overhead, and knowing beyond all else that he trusted this nér.

Erestor eventually found his words. “I have already been married once, Glorfindel.” His lover looked at him with wide eyes, but he went on, determined.

“Olórin let it slip to you some time ago that I awoke at Cuiviénen, but to tell this story I must give you more context than that, and the rest may come with time. I woke early and married early; I found the one I loved and we were happy for it. She was a fighter; she had a strength of mind and determination that I never did,” he said wistfully.

“And so when the Valar came knocking with the oath, asking for Maiar in exchange for protection, she leapt at the chance to prove herself – to offer herself.”

Glorfindel tensed. He knew well the story of the first oath, though most of its swearers were lost to history. “What happened?” he asked. She must be dead; her husband would not likely have begun a relationship with another elf otherwise.

Erestor rubbed his fingers together. “Her name was Morwë.”

Glorfindel sat back in his chair. “Melkor killed her,” he concluded, pain clear in his countenance.

And then, even quieter as he put things together: “I was taught that Morwë married Enel.”

Erestor held his gaze. “Indeed.”

His lover gestured, a little lost. “I am glad you have told me, but – are you trying to say that you are bound to her and only her? I do not believe you would have ever come to bed with me if that were so. I _cannot_.”

Erestor sighed and put a hand on his forehead, expression conflicted. “No, I did not refer to her when I spoke earlier. I explained that to say – well, of course I think you should know it anyway, but what I mean-” he paused again and took a deep breath, looking away.

Glorfindel reached over the table and put a hand on his. “Erestor, please do not stiffen up like you are at council. I see this is painful for you, but you must not put your emotion in that little box and lock it up. Share it with me. Please.”

The advisor looked at him, grief in his eyes, and let his shoulders out of their stiff, upright posture. A little bit more feeling came back into his demeanor, but it was sad, a great invisible weight on his shoulders. Glorfindel tightened his hand around the slender fingers and they gripped back, finding the strength to go on.

“I could not stand Morwë swearing the oath alone, and she thought it appropriate that both of us devote ourselves to the protection of our people – especially since I had no interest in leading. So I swore it too,” his voice dropped, “to Varda Elentari, when she came to us.”

Glorfindel jerked. His mouth dropped, but he had no words in the face of this revelation.

Erestor’s hand tightened again. “I’m sure you’ve heard that we had no idea what we were getting into; of course we didn’t; the oldest of us were perhaps five hundred and had only been speaking true language for a portion of that – but you know all this,” he said forcefully.

“What I _mean_ to say here is that if you marry me, Glorfindel of Imladris, ” he looked at him despairingly, “you will be marrying someone who is not truly yours, not in the way you would be mine; someone who can be removed from you at a moment’s notice; someone who- who-” he choked out as tears began to emerge, and took a deep breath. He pushed away Glorfindel’s other hand when it raised in comfort, obliging his lover to listen without distraction.

“Someone who must spend years and years away from you without love or warning, being hurt near constantly, while you can do nothing about it; someone who carries another’s children; someone who-“ his voice broke.

He run his hands down his face again, ignoring the tears, and carried through valiantly. “Who has already lost some of his soul. I- I am _broken_ , Glorfindel; I haven’t been whole since the first time Varda took me to her halls and laid me down in starlight and darkness. And it was different with Morwë, because we agreed to it together; we had the _choice_. Your choice is here and now, to hear this and accept it and continue loving me - or to pull away to protect yourself.” He bit his lip, looking down at their hands which he could barely even identify through the twin blurring effects of tears and awful eyesight.

“And I know it is already too late to tell you this and hope that you will not be hurt by it; yet I promised myself that I would give you this chance, and that I would tell the whole truth. I cannot lie to you about this, and I know that you will not and cannot truly understand the pain of it until your partner _is_ taken away from you-” he was finally in such a state that he could get no more words out.

He could not stand staunchly against the memories of Morwë’s experiences with Melkor, which combined now with horrible futures of Glorfindel having to watch him be taken away; Glorfindel not being able to stand it; Glorfindel _leaving_ _him_ -

But Glorfindel was here, reaching for him with strong arms, pulling him up, pressing him firmly to himself; so that Erestor could place his chin in the crook of his neck and wrap his arms around his strong back and bury his hands and face in golden hair and know that he was _there_.

They stood there, finding comfort in each other, and eventually Glorfindel began rocking them slowly, soothingly. “I did not die in fire and flame, Erestor,” he began.

“I died burnt and cold, lying on rock and snow and watching the world wink out above me. And I did it for my people.” They moved like that for a while, slowly, as Erestor tried to find the calm within his lover. “I died, and I went to the Halls of Mandos, and for a long time was pained and lost. Eventually I found peace, and I healed. That’s when they decided to send me back,” he continued softly.

“I talked to my grandfather in Valinor briefly, after they gave me a new body.” A thought seemed to occur to him, and he paused. “Well, I suppose you must know him, then. Ingwë. I don’t usually tell people that, but…surely you know him as a person, and not as a king. And Sorontar was thus my uncle, though I thought little of it then!”

He brought his hands up and began running them through Erestor’s hair comfortingly.

“I do not know if you feel the same, but to me his life sounded like dying, over and over, where in the beginning there is a little space and time to heal, but then it becomes more and more difficult as you realize that the pain will never end. That you might never be able to heal from it. And then you simply start to give up. Is it worth it? If the people you protect knew, would they really want you to go through this?”

Erestor gasped, face turned away so Glorfindel could not see his expression.

But he continued. “My grandfather has never lost sight of his people. He is High King; they surround him. And they have known of his sacrifices for the last three Ages, and few have ever argued. So he goes on.” He paused. “But I expect all of you were affected very differently, and those of you without people strongly depending on you must bear it in different ways,” he said.

“I do not know most of the other oath-holders; but I can only imagine that not all of you survive yet. In your position, I do not think I would have been able to. How many people know? How many people understand?” he wondered.

“I love you dearly, Erestor; I would have you by me as much as you can be, and only as much of yourself as you can give. More than anything I think that seeing you fall apart would destroy me; and even if we were not lovers and do not become husbands, I want to be here with you and for you. You have told me, now- you cannot take that back!” he finished. He pulled away a little and let Erestor’s face tilt up to look at him, golden eyes swimming and voice gone.

Unable to utter a word, Erestor shook his head, expression tinged with grief, and then pulled Glorfindel down and kissed him hard, as if the love he was feeling could cleanse his body of all else.

They stood there, kissing and touching and whispering, long after Glorfindel’s break should have been over. The sunbeams moved slowly over them as time passed, and the world grew colder around them. But neither of them felt it, such was the love in their hearts, and when Lindir was sent by Elrond through the garden to find them, he instead decided to back away slowly and leave them to it.

Lord Elrond would understand.

* * *

**February, Year 3020 of the Third Age**

**_two months later_ **

**\--**

“When was the last time?” Glorfindel asked, the side of his face pressed into the cool sheets of their bed.

Erestor grimaced. “She came to me when Olórin was killed. It had never happened that way before, but she said he needed to return, and she kindled power within me and then passed it to him. It did not last long.” He looked up at the ceiling unhappily. “Before that? I think….eight hundred years. The twenty-third century. I didn’t stay to raise it,” he said uncomfortably. Glorfindel reached for his hand.

“And before that she came far more often, so I had hoped lately that it was well and over with. But when she was here for Olórin she said that she would ask of me soon, and- I did not deal with that as well as I should have. Elrond found me on the floor in the library,” he laughed self-deprecatingly.

Glorfindel shook his head and pulled him into a hug, twining them together. Erestor smiled and kissed his chest where he could reach, embracing him tightly in thanks.

“If that happens again, I will be here for you,” his husband said.

“I know,” Erestor said, muffled. “I know.”

* * *

**April, Year 3020 of the Third Age  
_seventeen months before the last occupants of Rivendell leave for Valinor_**

\--

Glorfindel turned in alarm when his husband entered the hall . Erestor was panting and grasping at his chest, eyes a little wild. “Erestor! What on earth is the matter?!” He rushed over to him and held out his arms. “What is wrong?” he cried.

Erestor latched onto his arm with his free hand, anxiety clear in his eyes, and dragged him out the door into the hall and shut it quickly. In a low voice, he said, “I can’t last much longer; she’s calling me; do you remember what I said a few weeks ago? You’ll have to fill my spot in the preparations-“ he broke off, breathing quickly. Hurriedly, jamming too many words into the available space and gripping Glorfindel’s tunic tightly both hands, he said, “If you’ve sailed before it’s done I’ll ask to be returned to Tirion, I love you, I am _so sorry_ -“

-and he disappeared in a flash of abyssal darkness. Glorfindel was left with empty air where his lover should have been. His tunic relaxed gently from the creases Erestor’s hands had scrunched in it. He stared at the wall - through air that shouldn’t have been clear - and his mind screamed into a void.

Several minutes passed as he tried to process what had just occurred. Then the door creaked open, and Elrond appeared on the other side. “Are you two alright? Galdor said that Erestor had dragged you out in a hurry-” he paused. “Where _is_ Erestor? You look quite stunned.” He came through the archway and took one of Glorfindel’s hands, which were still outstretched. He examined it, turning it over, and then gave it up as nothing wrong. He brought his hands together and waited for an explanation.

Glorfindel finally lowered his own and turned to his lord. He didn’t know how to explain this. Though, Erestor had said that it was Elrond who had found him when he was overcome at one point….

He shook his head and walked down the hall to an empty sitting room where they wouldn’t be overheard. He sat down in an armchair slowly and watched Elrond do the same, a worried expression on his face.

“Are you having trouble with your relationship?” Elrond wondered gently.

Glorfindel shook his head, still a little stunned. “My lord Elrond, do you…recall finding Erestor in a state in the Library several years ago?” He was not sure how much Elrond knew; this was as good a way of any as finding out. Elrond could keep a secret, he was sure, but if Erestor did not return before they sailed and then magically appeared in Valinor with them, the others would ask questions that he could not easily answer.

Elrond’s brow creased. “Ah. Yes, he explained the situation to me. It is not too much to hope for that he told you everything?”

Glorfindel nodded. “Yes, before we married. He would not let me do so without knowing.”

His lord nodded. “So what is wrong? Why do you look so shaken? Is he carrying a child again and refusing to let you help?” he worried, frown increasing.

“No! No. Well – I will just out with it. He had very little warning; Varda took him away to her Halls not more than a minute after he pulled me out the door. He is gone,” Glorfindel gasped out, “and he said that he might not return before we sail.” He brought his hands together and leaned over onto his knees. “He can ask for the lady to send him to Valinor afterwards, if we have already left, but…”

Elrond understood and took up the thread. “But there will be questions. Why has the elf managing our packing-up and travel plans left suddenly, and then why will he magically appear in Valinor?” he sighed and leaned back into his own chair, looking out the window.

“This would be much easier if their names were still common knowledge, you know,” he said softly, “but of course I would not betray his trust like that.”

Glorfindel nodded tiredly and began playing with his earrings out of stress. When he realized where his fingers had migrated from habit, he pulled them away and ran them through his braids, breathing out in bother.

Elrond began speaking. “I knew another oath-taker, you know.”

Glorfindel huffed. “Lord Círdan?” He was one of the few whose names hadn’t faded after the Years of the Trees, but it was also well-known that he had a strong bond with his Vala. Their situations hardly seemed comparable.

Elrond shook his head. “No, not him. Did you ever hear of Evranîn?” he asked, and went on when he saw no recognition in the captain’s eyes. “She was my teacher in healing – my mother’s nurse, actually. Originally a healer in Doriath; Maglor captured her and initially she stayed in Amon Ereb to protect my brother and I, but eventually she remained because it was the only home she had,” he said, his eyes clouded in memory. “She taught me everything she knew and helped me find teachers for the things she couldn’t, and she spent a great deal of time trying to heal Maedhros.”

“I asked her why, once; we liked him well enough, after the trauma of switching families, but I never understood why she was always with him when he had killed so many of the people she knew.” Glorfindel leaned back in his chair, curious as to where this was going. He’d never heard the name before, but if she was an oath-taker then she must have been part of his grandfather’s generation, and they must have known each other even if only peripherally.

“She said-” and here Elrond brought his hands up to make some odd gestures punctuating his speech- “ _Unfortunately, I am uniquely equipped to handle that stupid, pain-filled head of his, Elerondo. I swore the first oath and gave away parts of my soul; he swore the second and had parts of his torn away. So here I am, patching it up, because Eru knows nobody else can do it, and he’s just a tad important in keeping us safe,”_ he finished, stilling his hands.

“I’ll never forget her saying that. And of course Elros and I immediately went and asked Maglor what the first oath was, and he wouldn’t tell us because we were so young! That set off a whole adventure,” he laughed. “Eventually someone gave it up, and I asked Evranîn everything. I’m not sure she ever told anyone else what she was, but she thought it important that we knew what the Valar could do. We were the heirs to too many legacies not to be tangled up in it all, I suppose,” he trailed off.

Realizing that Glorfindel had stopped listening, worried to distraction, he cleared his throat and leaned forward, grasping his captain’s shoulder gently. “What I mean to say, Lord Glorfindel, is that he will be back. I cannot advise you not to worry, but he _will_ return to you - and he will need you profoundly when he does.”

Knowing he could say no more, he brushed off his robes and rose, leaving the captain alone in his armchair, staring at nothing with lost eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the next chapter will introduce the last oathtaker!!!! (well, not the *last*, Elmo is technically the last as far as chronology goes, but the last to be introduced in this story.) as usual, she's been name-dropped a bunch already, but her larger story will begin unwinding...


	20. something irreparable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The loves and losses of Irmo’s Oathtaker, featuring a generous helping of family drama.
> 
> Featured characters: Malgalad, Nimrodel, Evranîn, Lenwë  
> Secondary characters: Amdír, Amroth, Erestor; [discussed: Elmo, Denethor, Galadhon, Celeborn]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: depression  
> \- PLOT TWIST(s)  
> \- forgive me my subterfuge I’ve been trying to keep this foggy lol. please tell me if I did a good job, I thrive on validation
> 
> Name guide:  
> Culúnalta = Malgalad  
> Onodrim = Ents  
> Lórinand = Lothlórien  
> Nanisáro = Denethor (of the Laiquendi)  
> Teleporno = Celeborn  
> Avanië = Evranîn

**SA 3432**

**_The Last Alliance; the Avarin, Silvan, and Sindarin forces make their plans_ **

\---

Malgalad and Evranîn sat together at the heavy table, pouring over maps and lists.

 _Oh, but a tree-line would be so helpful here,_ Malgalad signed to her wife. _We will have so few defenses in this seige. An open plain! What I would give to be preparing for a forest-battle._

Evranîn laughed. “I think you need to vary your living situation once in a while. I still don’t understand how you made it through the War of Wrath.”

Malgalad rolled her eyes. _Because I’m a decent soldier when it comes down to it! And I was with Lenwë and the Onodrim the whole time anyway, so technically there_ was _a treeline to fight in_.

Evranîn pursed her lips, trying not to smile.

Then she stopped, thinking Malgalad’s light words over again. “You know – and you don’t have to answer this - but it’s been bothering me for so long. What was it that came between you and Lenwë and drove them off?”

Malgalad froze. She turned to look at the smaller elf and frowned. _Why?_  
“Because I haven’t seen them in an Age, and they were living happily with you two in Lórien before they suddenly fucked off to who-knows-where. I ask the Entwives every time I go east and come up with nothing; I can’t figure out if it’s because they don’t know or they won’t say, and all signs point to some horrible argument.”

Malgalad sighed. _Oh, and it couldn’t have been Erestor’s fault, ah?_ she signed. She and Lenwë had agreed not to tell anyone what had really happened; and until they both met again and agreed to reveal the truth, those events would stay secret. Misdirection was key here.

Evranîn patted her on the back condescendingly. “They’ve never rubbed at each other the way you two do, Culúnalta.”

She rolled her eyes. _Well, I’m certainly not going to tell you if you treat me like that!_ she gestured. _Give it up as a loss and maybe I’ll tell you in another Age. We have much more important things to be doing at the moment._ She looked over at Amdír, who was speaking with Prince Thranduil of the Greenwood. _Tiptoeing around their egos, for example!_

Evranîn laughed and gave it up with ease. “Fine, but you’ll have to stop bringing them up, because every reference makes me remember that I wanted to ask. Back to defenses, then.” She unfurled another map on top of their pile and began pointing out landmarks.

Malgalad waited until the males had left and they were alone in the room before dragging Evranîn down for an appreciative kiss. The smaller elf reciprocated and climbed onto her lap, digging hands into her hair and smiling every time they came apart.

Amdír, who had come back to call them in to the evening meal, opened the door, rolled his eyes lightly, and leaned against the doorframe. “Seeing you two together is like watching my grandmothers make love,” he laughed. “You’ve both been around since the beginning and yet haven’t lost interest; it gives me hope for my own marriage.”

Magalad translated his words in ósanwe for Evranîn, since the smaller nís certainly hadn’t been looking at _his_ lips.

Evranîn lifted her head up afterwards and laid more comfortably against her lover. “To be fair,” she said with a smile, “we only came to know each other this way in the last Age. We’ve a great deal of lost time to make up for.”

Malgalad smiled fondly and stroked her hair, and Amdír watching it shook his head. “Well, carry on, or attend dinner with the rest of us, I suppose; the freedom is yours. I will see you both here tomorrow either way!”

Evranîn waved and then turned back to Malgalad and resumed her attentions.

* * *

**Year 1344 of the Third Age**

**_Forty-four years after the Nazgûl reappear and the Kingdom of Angmar is founded_ **

**\--**

Malgalad had lived alone in a corner of Lórinand for long count of years, content in her solitude. She spurned the Returned, the young, and even some of the old; she suffered Amdír to visit, when he would, and went so far as to be decently hospitable to old friends on occasion, but none else.

She wished that the others would, sometimes; but then she would wake up from a too-vivid dream of the world outside the forest and remember what kept them to their lands and her to Lórinand. She had lived long years with Erestor and Lenwë here, Ages ago, and then spent many content days with Evranîn in the same forest; she would keep to it and avoid the sorrows outside.

She had derided Elwë for the same, once; oh, how the mighty had fallen.

\--

Her latest suitor had come first with his father one day more than a thousand years ago, in the region for a diplomatic visit; and somehow her demeanor did not turn him away. After Dagorlad he remained entranced, and over the years came and went until she gave up and started to like him despite herself. Lórien slipped her dreams of him in Edhellond, sailing and ruling and laughing and destroying every bit of fortitude she had built up against loving someone new.

Amroth learned the archaic Silvan-Quenya she spoke, and her habits and wishes; he spoke of his own interests and somehow kept her attention. He _was_ very beautiful, she noticed, but it was the whole of him that caught her breath; his keen interest in fiber arts; his full knowledge of the plants around them; even the stories he told of other settlements, which for so long she had disdained. She had scorned the world even before the Last Alliance; only her hatred of the Dark Terror was more, and the thing that Amdír his father had leveraged to get her out and fighting.

But now, faced with the abiding love of his son, she did not trust herself. They had debated for years of her oath; what did she owe Irmo? What did she owe her people? What did she owe her own future?

She had already taken control of it, she thought; Malgalad had died at Dagorlad, fighting for the things Amdír believed in even as they scorned the High King of the Ñoldor and fought under their own banner. She had fallen, then, from many blows. And when she had dragged herself up out of the bloody mire three days later, dehydrated and pale from blood-loss, she had stumbled off of the battlefield and into the forest.

She had forsworn the fight, knowing that she could never escape the visions of it but that she was too broken to continue. She had no comfort but solitude now that Amdír and Evranîn were dead; she had stayed but a few minutes hunched over her wife’s body with her fingers on a nonexistent pulse before she could bear it no longer.

She had made her way back to Lórinand alone. A journey that should have taken months spanned years when she was forced to seek the services of a Mannish healer, and she had spent great deal of time fighting her own apparent inability to die.

She had cursed Irmo, then, but kept enough of herself to thank the woman before she left.

Malgalad had made it home before the remnants of Amdír’s army did, and in pain and isolation she wove wards around her little piece of the forest. She wanted to be alone, with the forest and the river and the cave she had shared with Evranîn, and nobody else to interrupt her peace. She had done enough. She had given enough of herself to others. Irmo she could not hide from; the Quendi she could.

\--

And then Amroth found her anyway. He walked directly through her wards and told her solemnly that he had taken over the kingship of the land. She was uncertain if what she felt was happiness or sadness, or something in-between; eventually, she only felt empty, and turned him away.

But he came back, and back again; he swore that nobody knew where he was, and he would not reveal her. He loved her more than he needed his people to know that one of their generals had survived the terrible battle; he loved her more than his people, it seemed.

Again, she was not sure how she felt at that, and she was also unsure what she was _supposed_ to feel about it. Sentiment, she felt, had fled her entirely.

\--

One day, his feet dipped in her little stream, Amroth asked if she would like a new name, and she considered it.

 _Yes,_ she said. _I suppose I would. For I am not the nís who lived here before, and certainly not the Quendë who lived in Cuiviénen when I was first named._

And so he looked around at her meadow, at her river and waterfall and the pale cave high above from which it stemmed; and he named her _Nimrodel_.

\--

She had found her way back to the well of emotion within her over the course of centuries; Amroth’s devoted kindness and sweet attentions battled furiously with the visions of death and kin-slaying and injustice with which she was plagued. His wall of goodness made it easier for her to keep hold of the scenes of everyday peace and tenderness and mother’s love that Lórien also shared with her, the small dreams so often overwhelmed by larger and darker ones.

She realized finally that she loved him; that he made her happy; and she remembered how once she had cared for things outside of her forest enough to go to war for them.

\--

And now they debated, and he argued for her to care about the world again; to care about herself; to stop worrying and marry him. She did not know what he saw in her; she never would.

But Amroth reached out a hand and traced the scars on her belly and between her breasts gently, and in that moment -- witnessing his expression full of love - she knew that she would follow him out of the forest. She would follow him anywhere.

And then he fell asleep next to her, and her strength faded, and in the mire of dreams she began again to forget the fortitude he summoned in her. By morning, she was empty once more and bade him go. She would only break his heart more thoroughly if he stayed, she knew.

But he returned, again and again.

* * *

**Year 92 of the Second Age**

**_Peace_ **

**\--**

Culúnalta was hard at work mending rope, mind bent towards her task and blissfully blank from the repetition. It was, therefore, rather jarring to have Lenwë break the glade’s sunny silence with harsh tones.

“I had an illuminating conversation with Elmo last week.”

“Did you, now?” Culúnalta murmured absently. “What about? Does it have anything to do with why she left in such a hurry?”

Lenwë kicked at the grass and readjusted the basket of lembas they were carrying. “Do you remember how she used to bring us news from across the mountains, before the First Battle?”

Their erstwhile spouse paused. “Is this about Nanisáro?”

“You’re sharp!”

“I have to be, when you approach conversations like this,” Culúnalta complained, putting the fibers she was working on down. “He’s long dead, Mandos help him; what news could Elmo have possibly brought you?”

Lenwë sat down in the grass next to her, put the basket aside, and pulled up their knees, clearly unsettled. “She was in a low mood, last week, and one evening drank too much limpë before I realized what she was doing. Then she started crying about Teleporno having a baby.”

Culúnalta frowned. “Who is Teleporno?”

“That’s what I asked!” Lenwë threw up a hand in exasperation. “And do you know what she said?!”

“Obviously not.”

“She turned to me and went, _Oh, he’s my grandson_ , as if that made any sense whatsoever!”

Culúnalta blinked several times, as if clearing her vision. “But she’s never had a partner?”

“Well,” Lenwë admitted, “to be fair, she’d probably say the same thing about us, since we never told anyone when we were together. _But_ , you’re absolutely right, or at least I thought that too; she’s never had any interest in marriage or children, and I’ve never talked to anyone who’s so much as kissed her. I felt betrayed, as if everything I knew of her was a lie, and meanwhile she lays there on our table crying into the breadbasket!”

Culúnalta’s brows rose. “And? What does this have to do with us?”

“Excellent question!” Lenwë said angrily. “Obviously, I was very confused, so I sat there and asked, _but Elmo, who on earth did you have a child with in the first place?_ ” they mimicked.

“And then she said,” Lenwë’s voice rose dangerously, “ _Oh, I spent a night with the leader of the Laiquendi once; didn’t really work out, and after I left I realized I was pregnant.”_

Culúnalta froze. “What.”

Lenwë threw their arms up again. “Yes! But wait, it actually gets worse!”

She looked at them incredulously. “How?!”

“Apparently it was right before Melkor was released and began wreaking havoc again, and so of course nobody thought to send a message to Nanisáro, since he wouldn’t have been able to make it there anyway. And then Elmo was injured, which we knew; and the child was mostly raised by others at court. Elwë, Avanië; I don’t even know,” they stressed. “The child repudiated Elmo as soon as he could legally do so, citing neglect, which of course she couldn’t argue with, and then she spent years on horrible missions dealing with it and ignoring the world.”

Culúnalta could see where this was going. “Ai, of course he couldn’t tell us, then - because she _never told him_ , did she.” How did their generation produce this much drama? They were supposed to be the wise ones.

Lenwë shook their head and fell back onto the grass with a soft thud. “That’s not even the worst part, ‘Nalta,” they said, shielding their eyes from the sun with a hand.

Their dark once-lover turned to look at them. “How in all of Endórë could this possibly get worse, Lenwë? Denethor is _dead_ ; he’ll never know this son, or apparently his grandchild!, and we haven’t known any of it. Unbelievable.”

Lenwë sighed. “The son’s name was Galadhon, and he followed Elwë and his forces during the First Battle to repel Morgoth. He never came back.”

Culúnalta lost the breath in her lungs. She took a great gasp, trying to refill them, and then turned to Lenwë. “Eru, please tell me they at least met on the battlefield and had a moment to know each other before they both _died!_ Oh, Darkness,” she gasped. “Elmo, you utter stupid _fool!”_ She put her head in her hands. She imagined their old friend popping up from around a tree and saying, _Congratulations, you have a grandson! But oops - he died four hundred years ago._ How was she supposed to deal with this?

She shoved herself off of the flat rock she had been sitting on and onto the grass, rolling into Lenwë. They got onto their side and put their arms around her tightly, tucking her head into their chest in old, familiar motions. “And now you know why I’ve been distant this week, and why I demanded she leave the next day,” they groused. “She didn’t even remember she’d said it.”

Culúnalta yelled into her hands, muffling the noise until she had nothing left.

“I keep telling myself, oh, this is what we get for living so far away from everyone we knew before,” Lenwë murmured. “As if somehow there’s an excuse for this. But even if I could forgive our son and grandson for going out of their way to fight in the war; even if I understand very clearly that Elmo didn’t know that Nanisáro was our son because we never _told_ anyone, and he left us to make his own way so long ago,” they whispered, “I don’t think I can look at her again without screaming.”

“She _was_ dreadfully hurt, Lenwë,” Culúnalta tried to rationalize softly, wiping her eyes.

“I know. It doesn’t help.”

Then something else occurred to her. “Do you think Evranîn knows? Or Erestor?”

Lenwë sighed. “I don’t know. I should hope that _nobody_ knows the whole picture; that Elwë and Evranîn and Erestor did not keep anything from us intentionally. Erestor’s romantically oblivious; I don’t think he’s ever realized that Nanisáro was ours either. But if he did…”

“Oh Lenwë, you cannot blame everyone else for something that spiraled out of control. You’ve seen how Elmo forgets things she should know, and if Erestor _does_ know the truth he surely cannot be blamed for holding his sister above all else. I would too, if I had a bond that close.”

Lenwë opened their arms and pulled away a little so they could see her face. “What, our son was not worth that? It’s alright that they didn’t tell him because she was _hurting_? This was his _child_!”

Culúnalta frowned. “We don’t even know that he _does_ know, Lenwë; and don’t say it like that. Of course it was not good. But Nanisáro is centuries dead; our friends are still here. And we have a great-grandchild, if Elmo can be believed; we may not know our descendants, but if we sent a letter I am sure they would agree to meet with us.”

She watched Lenwë’s face screw up into unidentifiable emotions and sighed. “Ah. I see. You would not want to anyway, as you did not want to see Nanisáro after he left! And yet you would condemn our friends for these trials, when you cannot even bring yourself to meet the family members they would have hid from you.” There was no judgment in her voice; only resigned understanding. “You cannot let Yavanna keep you from your life forever.”

Lenwë put a hand over their face, unable to meet her gaze.

They heard the crunching of grass nearby, and Culúnalta looked up to see Erestor approaching, his skirts dirty from the garden. “Are you two ready for lunch? Oh, having a little get-together without me, I see,” he laughed, trailing off when they separated and he saw their serious expressions.

And Lenwë looked at him, suddenly so aware that he and Elmo were twins and knew each other’s hearts; and felt revulsion climb up their throat. They shook their head and pushed away from Culúnalta, getting to their feet. “I have to go.” They picked up the basket they’d brought with them and jogged off as Erestor stared in confusion.

“Will they be alright?” he asked Culúnalta, but she only shook her head, watching their friend go with something akin to loss in her gaze. He had the oddest feeling that something irreparable had just broken, but what…?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All RIGHTY everyone, we have finally met all of the oath-takers! For reference, here’s the list according to Tolkien’s “due order” from the Valaquenta:
> 
> Manwë – Ingwë  
> Ulmo – Círdan (Nówë)  
> Aulë – Finwë  
> Oromë – Míriel Þerindë (Tatië)  
> Mandos/Námo – Eöl  
> Lórien/Irmo – Nimrodel (Culúnalta/Malgalad)  
> Tulkas – Rog (Roka)  
> Varda – Erestor (Enel)  
> Yavanna – Lenwë  
> Nienna – Olwë  
> Estë – Evranîn (Avanië)  
> Vairë – Rúmil (Tata)  
> Vàna – Daeron (Alaton)  
> Nessa – Elmo (Enelyë)  
> &  
> Melkor – Morwë (not part of the agreed-upon fourteen but oath-takers nonetheless)
> 
> & Nimrodel art here: https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/640966882605907968/a-star-was-bound-upon-her-brows-a-light-was-on


	21. he drifted in her abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elmo comes calling, but Glorfindel’s relationship with Erestor is too new for him to realize why. They have an enlightening conversation, cheering each other up – and across the Sea Erestor takes solace from their interaction.
> 
> Featured characters: Glorfindel, Elmo, Erestor, Varda  
> Secondary characters: Daeron, Ingwë, Glorfindel's mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: meta&physical rape. like ch. 3, it’s *technically* consensual, but very much not what one of them wants to be happening. (second scene only)  
> \- this is a continuation of ch. 19! It was just too big for one normal chapter. but hey, happy ending!!!  
> \- elmo is, as @nowendil has put it, “toll”. 😂 if you’d like to look at the character designs and height comparisons, we now have a lineup of most of the elves (and some maiar) who have appeared thus far. you can see vaguely what I think they look like here: https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/640060911127871488/alright-here-they-are-everyone-twenty-five-of

**September, Year 3020 of the Third Age  
_one year before the last occupants of Rivendell leave for Valinor_**

\--

Glorfindel was training with several friends in the grass-yards when Êlminui came storming up to him with a smaller silver-haired elf in tow whom she left at the first line of fencing.

He halted the scrimmage and called a break, pulling her to the sword-posts. “Good day! Can I help you?”

She looked annoyed, which was rather intimidating coming from an elf who was a good foot taller than he was. “Yes. You can tell me where my brother is!”

Glorfindel was lost. “Your…brother?” he asked confusedly. “Has he gone missing?”

She hit him in the bicep with a great deal of force.

He was too surprised at its appearance to block it, but he brought his hands up and put some space between them when she did not continue with a second punch. “I do not jest! I am sorry I do not know, but we rarely speak; who is your brother? I will send out a search party as soon as I can,” he chided, rubbing his arm as it smarted. One of his soldiers turned in his direction across the field and raised a hand, but Glorfindel waved her off. “Misunderstanding!” he called out.

Êlminui frowned. “I don’t understand. He didn’t…he didn’t tell you?”

Glorfindel connected the dots. “You don’t mean to say that-” He lowered his voice and hissed, “your brother is _Erestor_?!”

She looked at him disbelievingly. “He didn’t _say?”_

“No!”

She stood there, blinking, and then looked at his arm where she had hit it. “Damn. Sorry about that, then. Thought you were making light.”

The Vanya shook his head. “Indeed! Not at all. One minute.” He went over to the group he had been sparring with and let them know he would be some time, and then beckoned Êlminui to follow him down the path to the main garden. They found a bench near the wisteria and sat down.

Glorfindel stretched out his legs and began awkwardly. “You’re really his sister? You must- you must be from Cuiviénen, then. I thought you were born in Lórien. You look quite young,” he complimented.

She rolled her eyes and dragged a leg up on the bench to rest her arm on. “Yes, I’m as old as he is, which is to say: very. I’ve always looked like this, and I’ve lived off and on in Lórien but not at all since early in the Third Age. So you’re only mostly wrong!” she sniggered.

“But be serious now. Where is my brother? I’ve been looking for him all day; I thought he was absent because he’s planning the move, but the other councilors couldn’t tell me where he was and I try not to make myself too annoying, so I couldn’t press,” she sighed.

“And you’re his husband now, so I thought he would have told you about me so I could be properly overbearing.” She looked at him expectantly. “Is he holed up somewhere tearing his hair out, or what?”

Glorfindel winced. “I wish that were the case.” He wrung his hands. “They couldn’t tell you because we haven’t told them. He’s gone. Lady Varda took him suddenly last year,” he said anxiously, hoping that she was well aware of the oath. “I’m so sorry we didn’t send a message for you, but as has become clear - I didn’t know I needed to.”

Her eyes widened in shock, and she sat back. “Oh. _Oh,”_ she breathed out shakily. “And after he thought it was over.” She pressed a hand to her eyes briefly. “Fuck.”

Glorfindel nodded miserably.

Êlminui sighed and put her chin on her knee. “Well, that’s that, then. See him in five years, I guess.”

Glorfindel frowned and looked at her. “Isn’t that a little rude?” he said carefully. Far be it from him to understand her feeling as a sibling who had probably witnessed this happening too many times to count, but it sounded rather unfeeling, and he didn’t appreciate the tone when his own worry was overflowing.

She laughed hollowly. “Sure. But it’s all I’ve got nowadays. He’ll be back, and we’ll pick up the pieces then.” She paused. “Ai, and I had finally convinced Daeron to visit with me! Of all the times…”

Glorfindel blinked. Surely he had misheard. “Daeron? The…minstrel? Of Doriath?”

“Well, none of us are of Doriath anymore, you know,” she said reasonably. “It’s been gone for Ages, we’re all of other places now. He tends to wander around, though; visits all kinds of settlements. He doesn’t usually stay with elves long – doesn’t like being recognized. Goes by Alaton around anyone who might recognize the Sindarin, and Gwathon if we’re around people who know Quenya.”

“Gwathon.” Glorfindel repeated. “That’s…relatively transparent.” He thought for a little longer. “Wait,” he laughed. “Don’t tell me – Êlminui’s not your real name, either?”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “Of course it isn’t. I _do_ keep introducing myself as Elmo, don’t I?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Oh, Elbereth. You’re _Elmo_. You’re from Cuiviénen, you’re friends with Daeron – you’re Elu Thingol’s sister!” He looked over at her in annoyance. “I thought you were just a courier! Born this Age!” he whined, mentally running through all the interactions he’d ever had with her. “A child! How did I not figure that out?”

She shifted her head a little to look at him. “Because it benefits me to let others think otherwise. And I haven’t been part of a court since Melkor was released from Mandos in the Years of the Trees,” she said.

“So, unless you’d known me before that, the connection wouldn’t have been obvious. I left Doriath for good before the Girdle went up and have been running messages ever since. I tend to stay away from lords and kings; I like my anonymity,” she chuckled. “Beats the big expectations of leadership any day. And my grandson ignored any personal connection when we were formally introduced a while back, so I doubt he’s eager to spread the news,” she gestured sadly, looking back into the garden. 

Glorfindel frowned and leaned back, bracing his hands behind him on the stone. “Your grandson? Forgive me if I don’t recall the family tree…”

“Oh; Celeborn,” she sighed. “I had a son, Galathon, the year I left court, and then he went and had children. It was all a big mess, I’d rather not talk about it; suffice to say that we were literally never formally introduced until Celeborn and Galadriel took up leadership of Lothlórien back at the end of the twentieth century.”

Glorfindel sat and processed that. “Well, I have no idea how that happened, but I am sorry, for what it’s worth,” he said at last. “That sounds terrible. None of you have had an easy time of it, have you?”

Elmo laughed. “Nope. Taking that oath was the worst thing I’ve ever done, and I’ll tell you right now that I knew that the Ñoldor were murderers by the early First Age and purposefully kept it secret,” she said disconcertingly. Glorfindel gaped at her, and she laughed at his expression.

“The Mereth Aderthad,” she explained. “We might’ve seen each other then and not known it, you know! I was there just to look around, see if I could find anyone I knew. And then I ran into Alaton and we ended up finding Roka and she told us the important bits. She was drunk off her ass and kept trying to fight me for fun, so I wasn’t keen on sticking around for the whole story, but we waited till the next morning and wheedled it out of the princes.”

He stared. “You…knew _Rog_?” He felt like he was being whacked around on the practice field, but in his head. He’d known Erestor was old, but he never pressed his husband about his past – and yet here was the sister, coming out with something new every minute that blindsided him. They had really witnessed the history of Ennor.

She grinned, the movement visible through her mask. “Of course! She’s a Waker. We used to fight together, hunt orcs, that sort of thing, she and Morwë and I. Inseparable,” she said fondly, putting her head back on her knee.

“Also, I thought of it earlier and then lost the thread, but I’m not sure if he told you. Whenever you swear to Varda, even casually, in Erestor’s vicinity - he’ll hear it. Even if it’s in your head. It’s a result of her powers,” she explained. “You said her name earlier, and while he wouldn’t normally hear it from so far away, I think that he might now since you’re bonded. If you’re worried about him – well, it might soothe him to have you contact him like that,” she guessed. “Certainly would me.”

Glorfindel put his head in his hands. “What the _fuck,_ Elmo.”

“Yeah, sorry,” she laughed. “I know this is a lot, and you haven’t had a lot of time together since you’ve been married, but you should probably know this. I’m just doing my duty as a concerned relative.”

He groaned. “I take her name in vain _all the time._ ” Erestor had told him years ago to stop doing it, but he thought the request came from prudery and not genuine bother. Clearly, he should have listened.

“He probably forgot he could tell you now,” she snorted. “When you’ve done something one way for so long, you get used to it. You know how it goes.”

He did, so he nodded. Then he looked over at the shadows covering the ornate sundial across the yard and noted the time. “Anything else I need to know while we’re at it? Otherwise, it’s getting late – I should be getting back to the field.”

She thought briefly. “Uh, he used to be married? He’s got bad eyesight? Great night-sight, though. He hates mushrooms? He talks in Valarin in his sleep? Gosh, what else. He’s missing a toenail on his right big toe? You probably know that already.”

Glorfindel stopped her with a wave, laughing. “I know that! Good lord, I knew some of that, but you’ve just given me so many more questions that I don’t have time for. I think I must wait to ask him before you thoroughly demystify my husband for me!”

Elmo cackled and slapped him on the back. “You’ve got a lot of history to work through with that one – I’m still shocked he agreed to marry again. You must be worth it,” she said. “But let’s get back; Daeron is probably hopping mad that I left him alone with a bunch of extremely fit elves whom he can’t flirt with. Time for a rescue!”

They left the garden and returned to the training field, a much happier pair than they had been earlier. Daeron beelined for Elmo and punched her in the gut the second they got past the fence; Glorfindel saw now where that reaction came from. She laughed and picked him up carelessly, swinging him around with mirth.

Daeron was not truly that small; it was merely the comparison to Elmo’s great height, but Glorfindel immediately thought of the tiny adult dogs that rich Gondorian women liked to keep in purses, which were so flustered by their manhandling and inability to be taken seriously that they snapped and bit at everything.

He sighed, shaking his head, and rejoined the scrimmage that had begun again without him.

* * *

**September, Year 3020 of the Third Age**

**_The same day, in Valinor over the sea_ **

\---

Erestor gasped as Varda moved over him, her heat and wetness surrounding his cock and sending power thrumming through him. As ever, it was too much; he had little control and simply tried to weather what she pushed into him. Or had him push into her, as it was.

And as she rose and fell, and he felt like tidal waves of darkness carried him in, and out, and in – something tugged at him. A little anchor, it felt like, stabilizing him in the murk. It grew bigger and bigger, and through the haze of Varda’s power a voice suddenly grew in his mind.

It was Glorfindel, who had invoked Her name, and was saying:

 _“Oh, Elbereth. You’re Elmo. You’re from Cuiviénen, you’re friends with Daeron – you’re Elu Thingol’s sister!”_ He felt annoyed _. “I thought you were just a courier! Born this Age!” he whined, mentally running through all the interactions he’d ever had with her. “A child! How did I not figure that out?”_

-and then it was gone. Erestor smiled as he panted; usually that side effect made him mad, but this message had come with the warm feeling of love and the kindness of escapism. He clung to them as he drifted in Varda’s abyss, surrounded by bright stars and her greedy fána. The little soul in his chest pulsed in time with her power.

She pulled him to climax with her, cresting, and his mind whited out as her power grew to a level that he could not contain. When he came to, nestled gently against her with strands of her star-bright hair falling over them both, he sighed at the loss. If only Glorfindel would swear again! He would never again scold his husband for the habit, if it earned him this.

Varda opened her abyssal eyes and stroked his cheek gently, face lax. “I am gladdened to see that you have found love again amongst your kind, child.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he replied in kind, throat tight. “It is a boon.”

“Your wife was taken from you too soon, and you have received neither recompense or hope of her return. It is not boon, nay, but justice. I shall tell my husband so that this news may come to King Ingwë’s ears, and he may be reassured of the happiness of his kin across the sea,” she pronounced.

He protested. “No, that’s really not necessary –“

But she cut him off. “It is done.”

He closed his eyes in familiar frustration and decided to ignore anything else she might say. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to assess the growth of the soul and how much longer he might have to remain here.

But quickly he found himself thinking back to what he had heard. Elmo! Elmo was in Rivendell. She must have found Glorfindel looking for him, and then explained….Oh, he had forgotten completely to tell him about her!

But it was heartening to know that two of his most precious people were coming to know each other. He would tell his husband about the others whom he kept in contact with when he returned.

For now, he would hope fervently, like he had never done before, that Glorfindel would keep swearing to the stars.

* * *

**FA 3**

**_Three years after the last occupants of Rivendell sailed for Valinor_ **

\--

Glorfindel sat with his mother and grandfather in a small sitting room in the family wing of the High King’s palace on Taníquetil amongst the clouds. They had gathered for tea, and to continue telling each other stories of the past Ages, which had become a bimonthly tradition in the past few years of their reacquaintance.

A variety of cups sat on the small tables near each couch, as it pleased them to rate samples from his mother’s collection, and each elf was curled up on a large couch of their own and surrounded by comfortable, over-stuffed pillows.

Glorfindel was currently involved in the story of meeting Elrond for the first time and being passed from Círdan on to Imladris like a particularly shiny and useless sack of flour. “It would be funny if it did not happen so often, I swear,” he complained, “but somehow people are consistently shocked that I can do calculus or solve any sort of intellectual problem beyond basic strategy. Springing a trap and defeating an impossibly large force? Oh, naturally Laurëfindel can do it,” he mimicked, speaking Quenya for his family.

“But calculations regarding incomes and supplies to feed the soldiers? Working out where to put a catapult on the war-field so that its arc will enable us to hit the target? Oh, don’t be silly, send that to someone else, he doesn’t know how to do that!” He laughed. “As if I ever did much else in Gondolin, where we fought not at all ‘till the very end. And do you know, I keep telling people what my training here was, and they only hear ‘philosopher’ and think that I was part of the Lambengolmor!”

His mother snorted at the thought, and Ingwë chuckled. “You do seem to be quite renowned amongst people for the single heroic deed. Perhaps you ought to rejoin your guild and don scholars’ robes once again. If you wore your counting-cord belt, nobody could mistake you for a sack of flour!”

Glorfindel laughed and nodded. “The problem with that is that I would have to wear a dangly belt, and I swore off of swinging accessories after an incident involving an ambassador in the early First Age,” he informed them, reaching to his side to pick up his drink.

But before he made contact, his vision was obscured abruptly by a sudden darkness and something heavy dropped into his lap.

The light flooded back into the room in another instant and he realized the thing was Erestor, who regained his bearings the next instant and embraced him, climbing onto his knees to sit on Glorfindel’s lap and hugging with all he was worth. Glorfindel laughed, teary, and squeezed his husband as hard as he could.

“You’re back!” he cried, euphoric.

“I’m back, it’s done,” Erestor sobbed joyfully. “You swore every day! I love you so much!”

“Ai, Elbereth!” Glorfindel cursed familiarly and grinned. “Just for you. Oh, I am so glad you have returned.”

Erestor nodded, pulling away and looking at his husband properly for the first time in five years. “Oh, you’re beautiful.” He brought a hand up and traced Glorfindel’s cheekbone in reverence. Then he sniffed, about to cry again.

Seemingly sensing this, a voice interrupted. “What, no hello for me?”

Erestor’s eyes widened and he whirled around, slightly awkwardly given the lap he was still sitting on. “Oh, Darkness,” he gasped. “Ingwë!” He scrambled off Glorfindel’s lap with an apology and practically ran to the other couch, and Ingwë rose to meet him.

They met in a great impact, and Ingwë picked him up and swung him around, embracing him tightly as they both laughed in relief. When he finally put Erestor down, the smaller elf grabbed him again and smashed his head into his chest. “I was so worried,” he said. “Oh, Ingwë.”

The High King shook his head and smiled. “And I for you! Yet both of us live yet, and I hear that you have gone and happily married my grandson! Life seems to be on an upward swing, no?”

They finally separated, Glorfindel full of happiness as he looked on, and Erestor smiled. “Indeed! Is Rúmil about? I hadn’t let myself consider what I would do if I ended up here, but now that I have embraced you I feel the urge to surprise him as well!”

Ingwë laughed heartily, joy in his eyes. “He lives in Tirion, my friend, and we are on Taníquetil. But come, sit a while with us before that, and we will tell you of all you have missed,” he said, gesturing back to Glorfindel’s couch. He sat back down and exchanged looks with Manyasúre as Erestor walked back over to his husband.

Glorfindel reached out a hand and pulled him down, meeting his eyes. _I’m not sure how long I can sit here, my love, now that we are reunited. I have a room in the family wing; would you mind terribly retiring as soon as possible so-_

Erestor took over the thought. _\- that we can reacquaint ourselves? Please. I miss Ingwë, but I would like nothing more than to simply lie with and cherish you alone for a time. He will understand._

 _Twenty minutes,_ Glorfindel said, _and then I can make our excuses._ Their hands met, and he turned back to face the rest of the room and began detailing to his husband aloud how they had explained his absence, years ago…

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -‘gwath’ & ‘dae’ are synonyms for ‘shadow’ in Sindarin; ‘daeron’ actually parses out to ‘daer-’ and ‘-on’ and & ‘daer’ = Quenya ‘alat,’ meaning ‘great,’ hence ‘alaton’ – much like Elmo’s name, it’s a pun, but it’s enough to mislead people.  
> (accidentally put this note at the end of ch 19 earlier, my bad! it belongs here...)


	22. he might very well go mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor announces his discovery of the first oath to his sons before he makes it public; Celegorm wonders how nobody else knew about it. Oromë had been quite forthcoming about his history with Míriel, after all...  
> Years earlier, he explores new boundaries of his relationship with Oromë;  
> Many years later, faithful Huan watches as the hunter is snared and strangled by his own Oath and tangled magics until nothing is left.
> 
> Featured characters: Celegorm, Huan, Curufin, Fëanor, Oromë, Lúthien  
> Secondary characters: Amrod, Amras, Aredhel, Beren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- extremely consensual sex in this chap   
> \- bolded text is from The Silmarillion, ch. 19, “Of Beren and Lúthien” and from The War of the Jewels, ch. 1, “The Gray Annals.”
> 
> Name guide:  
> Turko = Turcafinwë = Celegorm  
> Irissë = Aredhel  
> Curva = Curufinwë = Curufin  
> Pityo = Pityafinwë = Amrod  
> Atar = Father  
> Nís/si & nér/i = female & male elf/elves, oops @ me for not defining this before now

**Year 1470 of the Years of the Trees**

**_twenty Valian years before Fëanor is exiled to Formenos_ **

**\---**

Their father had called them to Tirion rather abruptly. His handwriting, usually so careful and fine, held an undercurrent of worry that had his children canceling plans and lectures and work and hurrying home. Even Turko, who had been out in far-flung southern forests with Irissë, had gotten a messenger-bird and ridden hard to return within two weeks.

He had only just returned, sliding off of Huan as the horse-sized dog panted heavily, when the Ambarussar appeared and dragged him inside.

“I’m disgusting,” he protested. “I just got home, is there not an hour to get cleaned up?”

Pityo leveled him with a harried look and forced him into the largest family room, where he saw his father pacing and his brothers gathered around tables and over chairs. He sighed, waving hello, and then went directly to the pillow-pile on the rug in the corner. He slid down against the walls, gathering cushions, and promptly Huan – now properly dog-sized - flopped over onto him bodily and sprawled across his legs. Curvo gave them a look from the table.

“I _asked_ if I could bathe first!” Turko hissed at him, adjusting a pillow, and his brother turned back towards their father.

Father cleared his throat. “I am sorry to call you all back in this manner. Nelyo and Moryo already know much of this, but I thought it necessary to make the matter known to you all in advance of the public assembly next week. This concerns the Valar, and several of you work with them often,” he said, throwing a worried look directly at Turko, who frowned. His father had never complained about him spending time with Oromë before.

And then Fëanor explained, and he began to understand.

-

When their father was done, he asked his sons to remain in the city for some time and then dismissed them. Curvo stayed behind for a few minutes, complaining about a commission, and then finally left after Father asked him to tell Tyelpe before the assembly could catch him off-guard. _Anyone associated with Míriel_ , he said, _should be made aware privately_.

Turko had let his mind float towards the end of the conversation, distracted by thoughts of having to stay in the capital for so long. He looked up when Huan snuffled and bumped him; his father was coming to speak with them.

Fëanor pushed some of the pillows aside and sat down on the carpet next to his son, and agreeably patted the Maia when he moved his head over with an expectant look. Then, suddenly realizing what was in front of him, his hands froze in the thick fur and an expression of extreme disorientation came over his face.

Turko leaned over the dog and took his father’s hands, which he realized were shaking minutely. “Huan would never hurt me, Atar. He’s mine. He doesn’t even listen to Oromë sometimes; he’s his own being.” Huan whined gently but stayed still on top of his legs, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible.

Father’s voice caught in his throat. “That’s not- I know, Turcafinwë,” he started. “I know that.” He rubbed Turko’s hands and sighed. “It only just occurred to me that he is a child of my mother. I suppose that I have more half-siblings than I knew of.”

Turko stared at him in confusion. He wasn’t going to poke a live bear, but- “Atar, you were just telling us that Aulë’s Maiar are all our half-uncles. That means they’re your half-siblings too, along with Oromë’s lot,” he clarified slowly.

Father laughed sadly. “No, that did not escape me! But I was not initially thinking of my mother when I considered the ramifications of this oath. I so often chide others for leaving her out, and then here I am forgetting her part in things.”

He pulled his hands away and began petting Huan again slowly, full of emotion. “But is it not so that she created more than one child? And the others may have known her better than I.”

He paused. “I suppose Huan cannot tell me! But I must think on this.”

Turko shrugged, and then stilled as his father brought a hand up to his face.

“I only want you to be safe and happy, Turcafinwë, as I always have. You will tell me if anything happens?”

“Of course, Father,” he agreed. “You usually notice when I am unhappy, you know.”

Father laughed, reassured. “You do tend to advertise it, my son,” he said. “Well, good. I must be off to meet Nolofinwë now; but go to your brothers and join their discussion. Irissë is welcome to stay, or to come with me, if indeed she came back with you; Nolvo would like to see her.” He leaned over and hugged Turko quickly and gave Huan a soft pat. Then he pushed himself up and left the room.

Turko listened to his footsteps fade and then looked down at the furry, hot weight on his legs that was staring at him accusingly.

“Don’t look at me like that, Huan; I _did_ tell him you were mine just now. And he’s what, _forgotten_ that I told him I’ve had you since your birth? He’s normally too sharp for that. Maybe he’s just…blocking it out,” he wondered softly, stroking his son’s fur absently.

 _He would probably like to know he has a grandson,_ Huan suggested.

Turko shook his head. “Not like this,” he said staunchly. “When Oromë explained the history, I didn’t realize Atar didn’t know about it at _all_! Now I understand why he told me not to say anything. I’d thought everybody knew generally about the oath, though.”

He leaned his head back and blew out a stream of air. “Atar clearly thinks it’s some sort of tragedy, instead of a fair deal for protection, and that alone has him inflamed. If he knew about _you_ , he might very well go mad.”

The Maia sighed. _If you insist._

Turko looked at him with an eyebrow raised, and then reached over and picked his head up, ruffling the fur under his floppy ears. “Feel free to tell him yourself, Huan,” he said with humor. “All you need to do is open your mouth and use those lovely vocal chords for once!” He poked the furry throat gently, and Huan turned around and mock-bit him. They began tussling and ended up with Turko sprawled all over messy pillows, laughing, as Huan stood over him viciously slathering his face in drool.

“Well, you look ripe for a bath,” said Irissë loudly from the doorway. They turned their heads as one to look at her.

“As if you aren’t, mud-daughter?” Turko challenged, cataloging the stains and debris on her pale grey traveling clothes.

She laughed. “I’d certainly like to, but your father has offered to expedite my ride home, and I see that you have all the company you desire at the present moment. I’m heading back to see Father.”

Turko pushed himself up, shoving Huan off, and cleaned his face with his sleeve. “You’ll probably get the same speech we just did. ‘The Valar are betraying the Eldar again,’ and so on. Or betrayed us centuries ago? I’m a little unclear on where Atar is going with this, honestly.”

Irissë shrugged. “Either way. It’s been years since we were back here, so I’m going to go surprise my brothers and then take a long bath. I’ll see you around.”

Turko waved as she walked back into the hall, and then looked at Huan and put his hands on his hips. “Well, you heard the nís,” he said responsibly. “I think I hear a hot bath calling our names!”

* * *

**Year 1295 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Celegorm is many years past his majority_ **

\--

The forest around them was loud. Animals squealed and trees creaked; birds sang and plants bloomed under the force of Oromë’s power. Yet Celegorm felt none of it, because all of his feeling was concentrated on the parts of him which Oromë touched. Fingers trailing down his chest; over his thighs; into his mouth; around his cock; and he felt nothing more than the purest adrenaline and joy. They were both covered in blood, not from a hunt gone ill but from knife-fighting, which the Vala had won and then taken great joy in pinning his Elven lover to the grass and opening him up with care.

They were both panting and moaning, Celegorm too far gone to do aught else and Oromë too pleased by the results of his attentions to care to try.

And in the throes of bliss, climbing higher and higher in his mind as his body was heated from the inside out by Oromë’s thrusting cock within him; Celegorm put a hand on his lover’s chest and _pushed_ , breath short, trying to open the same glory of the soul within his fána-

-and Oromë accepted it, and they joined within as without and spilled.

When the last spurts of his seed and come and gone and he had returned back to himself, Oromë collapsed onto his chest, surrounding him with an embrace and murmuring into his hair.

Celegorm smiled, sweaty and bloody and aching and ever so pleased. He let his eyelids drift closed as he explored the parts of Oromë’s vast soul which he could sense from his position. He could tell that a greater part was beyond him, but that he perhaps had some power from where he was. He poked and prodded gently, and then Oromë poked him physically in the side.

He was drawn out of his examination with a jerk, thoroughly surprised. His bodily exhaustion hit him all at once, then, and he laughed. “No poking?”

Oromë huffed and nuzzled into his neck, content to ignore the way he was presenting his naked ass to the world. “I will accept poking, but if you are not careful about doing it when we are connected, then you may spawn something you did not intend.”

Celegorm thought about this, winding his hands through Oromë’s woodsy brown hair. “Do you mean that we might create a child together?”

“You sound excited,” Oromë said softly, not bothering to move and look at him to confirm.

“Like my grandmother did? For Tilion?” Celegorm asked, far too interested to leave the topic be.

“Yes, as Míriel did to Create Tilion and a half-dozen others,” the lord answered. “And thus you must restrain yourself, as I have not had a new Maia for long count of years now and my soul quite _itches_ to create one, Tyelkormo,” he said lightly, finally lifting his head and looking at Celegorm. “’Tis troublesome, having all of this power and nowhere to put it!”

His elf quirked an eyebrow. “You were putting it in _me_ – not to mention all over thy woods - not five minutes ago!”

The Vala smiled, showing teeth, and placed his chin on Celegorm’s chest comfortably, crossing his arms underneath his neck. “I was, wasn’t I.”

Celegorm thought some more, watching his lover, and then said, “I wouldn’t mind, you know. Making a child.”

Oromë’s eyebrows drew up. “Really.”

“Truly.”

“Have you any idea of what it involves, Tyelkormo, beyond encounters like this?”

“Not really,” Celegorm shrugged. “But I like the idea, and _you_ like the idea, and I don’t see why it would be a bad thing when you need Maiar and so many other Quendi have already done it.”

Oromë hummed and nodded. “Well,” he started fondly, “I would not want you to agree to it without knowing what was involved. But if you listen, and learn, and then decide that you would be amenable – I would be very pleased indeed.”

Celegorm laughed. “It does not take much to please you, though!”

“Ah,” Oromë said dangerously, rising up onto his knees, “but Tyelkormo, it _does_. You are simply the thing that pleases me most – have you not realized?” and he grasped the hard, waiting cock and sank down on it, enlarging his passage as needed to take it in so quickly.

Celegorm gasped in pleasure and pushed himself up, finding his balance on a braced arm, and then grabbed Oromë’s face and dragged him down for a devouring kiss. 

* * *

**Autumn, Year 465 of the First Age**

**_The Quest for the Silmaril_ **

\--

The strange-smelling figure slid off of his back gently. It ran a calloused hand down his neck in an odd sort of thanks and then turned to the brothers that stood before them.

Celegorm stepped forward, bowing gently; for anyone that Huan bore to him must be a friend. “I am Turcafinwë Tyelkormo, and this is my brother Curufinwë Atarinke. Reveal thyself!”

The figure stepped forward and said, “I know of ye, princes! Thou art Celegorm and Curufin in the tongue of this land. I thank thee for your stayed hands and must now beg for aid. I am Lúthien, princess of Doriath, and I seek the Man Beren,” she proclaimed, and confidently took down her hood.

And Huan recoiled; for he had not realized that this figure was a Maia once removed, the child of the one who had stolen a husband for herself without his leave.

He barked at Celegorm, warning him to guard his thoughts and bearing, but to no avail; for the brothers had already looked into her eyes and were entranced.

Luthien turned to him with a fond smile and patted his jowl, and something in her manner stayed him. He looked back to his father and realized his will was swayed; whether or not Luthien realized what she had done, on guard as she was against even her own people, Huan sensed that events would soon spiral out of control.

This Maia-child was woven into both historic oaths, he could see; the faint thread of the first floated around her and connected her to Vána; while the dark chains of Fëanor’s oath bound her now to Manwë and Varda. By commanding Beren to bring to him a Silmaril, King Thingol had made himself party to the theft of another’s property and the Doom upon it, and by seeking to help Beren on this quest the princess had tied herself into it also.

Huan admired her fortitude but shied away at the darkness he could see, so similar to that which he saw daily twining around himself and the brothers. There was no way this would end well; he could already feel the compulsion to like and help her sinking into his fur. He trotted away to Celegorm and grew smaller, sinking from their height down so that his head was at the level of his father’s thighs, and sat there with his tail brushing around leather shin-guards. Celegorm smiled down at him and patted his head, and then turned to Lúthien and **promised that she would find help in her need**.

\----

They sat around a crackling fire in the deep night, surrounded by unfriendly trees.

“Beren has killed our cousin, and taken the threat of our Oath upon himself,” Celegorm spit angrily.

Curufin looked at him in annoyance and replied, “He has, and I would kill him for it; and yet why is it that I do not hear you cursing the one who helped him?”

His brother reared back. “Princess Lúthien is unassailable; she aided him for love, and did not herself kill Findaráto. Beren is at fault only.”

“Beren too did this thing for love,” Curufin ground out, “and the Princess’ power accomplished far more of the work than his. You are _mad_. Where is the elf who came to his senses before and tried to stop her?!”

“If mad I am, if bewitched, I still will not hear a word against her!” Celegorm shouted. “She will be mine, no matter what I must do for it. We will destroy that Man, burn his very soul, and then she will be free of him.”

Curufin spat into the fire and turned away.

Huan, deeply troubled, nosed Celegorm’s hand and accepted the reflexive pets. _Father, I worry for you. For us all._

Yet Celegorm did not appear to hear him, and his fingers slowed as his thoughts drifted away.

\----

Huan panted lightly as he kept up with the horses. He bayed, letting the brothers know they were catching up with the couple, and Curufin slowed his horse. But Celegorm spurred his on, forcing his brother to catch up again, and suddenly they came upon the frightened pair.

Curufin dove for Lúthien as Celegorm aimed for Beren, in unanimous and unspoken agreement, but Huan stayed back. He felt frozen in indecision - torn between his love for his parent and the compulsions and offerings of salvation he saw in the Maia-child and her Man.

The Man was fast and strong, and in his height even with Curufin, who was the smallest of their House. Beren leaped away from Celegorm’s attack and took Curufin down off his horse, coming down hard on top of the elf and dazing him as his head _thunked_ onto hard ground. Beren pushed away immediately and backed up towards his lover, seeing Celegorm riding again for him – and then Huan acted.

The Elven ethics his father had taught him so long ago, absent from Oromë’s own teachings, finally took hold of him and refused to let his family go any further. In front of his parent he reared up and attacked, barking madly to startle the horse as he grew threateningly to an enormous size.

 _You must stop this! You have lost yourself!_ he howled through ósanwe. _We will all die for this!_

But his worst fears were answered; Celegorm could not hear him. His father’s mind no longer recognized his soul. The strangling holds of Fëanor’s Oath and Lúthien’s reflexive compulsion had proven to be too much, and there was no Oromë to cleanse his mind with an overflow of power now.

Celegorm cursed him, and Huan knew then that the father of his heart was gone.

\--

The Princess, Man, and Maia faded into the distance as the sons of Fëanor held fast to their angry steed. Celegorm’s mind felt wild and unapproachable to Curufin - slavering maws in a dark forest. Yet he made the connection nonetheless and laughed grimly at the question he felt pushed towards him.

 _She bespelled you, brother,_ he whispered _. She has taken your child from you in one hand, and plans to take our father’s heart in the other; and in her wake has destroyed your mind. I see it clearly!_ he cried, striking into the dark murk of his brother’s invisible thoughts. _They both deserve death and will find it; but I do not know how long we will last alongside._

He squeezed his brother’s ribs as hard as he could. His head was still spinning from the fall.

His own son had deserted him some time ago, but as angry as he was at the betrayal, he still had faith that Tyelpe would survive. This was a chance for his child to find his own way out from under the Oath that bound his father. But Huan - stalwart Huan - _was_ Doomed to die, and had lived always with and for Celegorm. There was no hope for him beyond them, and they were swiftly fleeing his righteous anger.

Curufin closed his eyes, concentrating on the rhythm of the galloping horse under them and the sounds of Celegorm swearing. He succumbed to a grieving sleep slowly, as he for but a short time recognized fully how far they had fallen. It would be the last.

In the distance, a wolfhound howled.

\------

**_Huan followed Celegorm into exile, and was faithful; and thus he too came under the doom of woe set upon the Noldor, and it was decreed that he should meet death…_ **

**_-_ **

**_[Huan] brought her to Celegorm, and Lúthien, learning that he was a prince of the Noldor and a foe of Morgoth, was glad; and she declared herself, casting aside her cloak. So great was her sudden beauty revealed beneath the sun that Celegorm became enamoured of her…_ **

**_-_ **

**_'I also have sworn an oath,' said Felagund, 'and I seek no release from it. Save thine own, until thou knowest more. But this I will say to you, Celegorn the fell, by the sight that is given me in this hour[…] Nay, your oath shall devour you, and deliver to other keeping the bride-price of Luthien.'_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raise your hands if you expected THAT twist


	23. out of altruism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate for some time away from Nessa, Elmo does what she can to halt the Creation.  
> It doesn’t end well, and the other oath-takers begin to feel the effects… 
> 
> Featured characters: Elmo, Daeron, Melian, Rog, Rúmil (of Tirion)  
> Secondary characters: Elwë, Evranîn, Mablung, Aiwë, Elessar, Turgon, Glorfindel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: metaphysical abortion-turned-miscarriage  
> \- olwë jinxed it  
> \- rog absolutely dances the ñoldorin equivalent of the haka but also enjoys salsa and tango, as anything that involves flinging other people around is a go in her book. (her favorite partner at official functions is maedhros because he’s tall enough to fight to be the lead and also *will* fight her for it & he’s actually good enough to disguise them flinging each other around as precise technique, so by the time the set is over everybody congratulates their Fancy New Moves™ and they both leave laughing)  
> \- art! doriath gang!! https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/641234895371403264/evran%C3%AEn-e%C3%B6l-elw%C3%AB-l%C3%BAthien-elmo-daeron
> 
> Name guide:  
> Elwë = Elu Thingol  
> Melyanna = Melian  
> Turukáno = Turgon  
> Laurëfindel = Glorfindel  
> Roka = Rog  
> Tata = Rúmil

**Year 1382 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Menegroth has flourished for eighty-two Valian years and used Daeron’s Cirth for three decades; Melkor will be released from Mandos in less than two._ **

\--

It was the end of a long day of court proceedings; the plans for Menegroth’s expansion had been presented to the public and moods were high. The king sat on his throne, conversing softly with his daughter and the queen with a smile on his face and a pale wine in his hand. Advisors and city overseers had gathered in clusters to discuss the outcome and small foods were being circulated through the crowd. The king smiled, absently nodding at his daughter’s words, and took another sip. His eyes wandered over those gathered.

Near the enormous double doors, which soared nearly twenty feet high and dominated the room with ornate carvings and stained-glass insets, one of the king’s siblings was enjoying herself. Elmo gestured, her glass of iced miruvor sloshing a little, and a dark-haired Marchwarden laughed at whatever she had said.

“Complete folly,” he replied, taking a last swig of his drink and then setting it on the high table next to them. “He might not penalize you for it, but he doesn’t even know who I am!”

Elmo smiled widely, the scar on her jaw stretching as she started to respond – and then stopped, jarred by the sudden feeling of something within her being out of order. She gasped and pressed a hand to her breast, feeling within.

Mablung frowned and made to put a hand on her shoulder, but missed as she lost the strength in her legs and fell to her knees on the floor. Her breathing became harsh as she tried to discern what was wrong. Something hurt, something that wasn’t supposed to feel like that-

\--

Elwë saw the instant his sister folded; he leapt off the throne and ran to her side, weaving through and interrupting any discussion that stood in his way. The marchwarden she had been talking to had placed a hand on her back and was asking her what was wrong, but she wasn’t answering.

Elwë came to his knees in front of her and the nér backed off, hauling himself up and running for the healer.

The desperate brother tried to get her attention and failed; her eyes were glazed over and unfocused, and her breaths coming short. She was still conscious, but unreactive to anything around her. He turned to his wife, who had dismounted the dais after him and followed at a more respectable rate. Melian looked worried, and as she kneeled down closed her eyes and reached out with a hand.

Elwë barely acknowledged Mablung returning with Evranîn in the background, Daeron trailing them worriedly. The king sat there, desperately worried at the thought of losing another sibling; and then blanched when just as Melian’s hand made contact, Elmo disappeared.

For a long second, the hall was still, courtiers turned to watch the scene; and many of them realized quickly what had occurred. Elwë turned to Melian and whispered, “Did you feel anything, before…?”

She shook her head. “Nothing that I could understand. She was carrying, but we knew that.” She turned away and rose, addressing those present. “Nessa has taken Elmo to her halls; she will surely be well. Please return to your discussions.”

She looked at her husband, still kneeling lost on the ground, and bent down to pull him up lovingly. “Elwë, she will be fine. Nessa will take care of her and the child. You will not lose her like the others.”

He shook his head, still shocked at the suddenness of it. “That does not stop me from worrying, wife. I think I must retire.” He nodded to the others, making his excuses.

Watching them go, and not caring for Mablung or anyone else who was listening, Daeron turned to Evranîn. “Have _you_ ever had that happen?” He looked mystified.

“Not before birth,” she frowned. “And Elmo was only halfway done, by my estimate.” She turned to Mablung next to them. “Is there any chance that she was poisoned recently?”

He shook his head. “Not that I know of. We’ve been reinforcing the areas in the north near Nan Dungortheb lately, so there was ample opportunity; but for all the wounds she’s earned, nothing has been serious and none of it lingered. Beleg’s had worse.”

“Cúthalion hasn’t been carrying a Maia around in his chest,” Evranîn replied dryly, folding her arms over her breast. “But I can’t think of anything else that might have caused a problem. Unless Nessa purposefully did something, which I highly doubt. Even Melkor’s efforts didn’t hurt Morwë like that, I think.” She chewed on her lip, and underneath her elbows her fingers were flexing in anxiety.

Daeron shook his head, thoughts distant. “No, not until later.”

Mablung cringed, thinking of the old stories, and left when the pair didn’t look like they were going to say anything else.

* * *

**_several weeks later_ **

\--

She raised her cupped hands and opened them a little, safely revealing a tiny sparrow sleeping in her palms. Daeron breathed out in wonder. “It’s so _small,_ Elmo.”

She nodded, face conflicted, and closed her hands again, holding them in her lap. She tilted her head to the door. “Can you close it, please?”

He did so, and then came to sit in the nest-chair with her. “What happened?”

She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “I tried to corrupt it. Halt it.”

Daeron reared back. “ _What?!”_

She looked at him, defiant. “Don’t look at me like that!”

“How do you want me to look at you, Elmo? That’s going against your oath!”

“No, it’s not,” she hissed. “Mine never had anything about trying to stop it, or- or even having to put my full will into it. And you _know_ how bad it’s been, lately! I thought I might be able to gain a respite if I made one fail; maybe Nessa would back off for a while.” She looked dismally at her hands.

“But instead I just made it hurt more, and ended up making a child who for all I know won’t be able to use his power properly, or have a full life…”

“If you didn’t want him, then why is he here with you?” Daeron asked hesitantly.

She frowned. “Nessa said that because he wasn’t fully developed, he was unable to take in all the sustenance he needed from my soul and would never grow further. I didn’t nurture him enough, so now he’s stuck to me for all eternity, leeching off of me,” said bitterly, looking away.

“What, as if he cannot leave you at all?”

“ _Maybe it will change_ ,” she quoted. “But she has no use for a permanently half-grown Maia, so until then he has to stay close to me.”

She drew her legs up into the chair and leaned against Daeron, bringing her hands close to her chest. “All he’s done is sleep,” she said worriedly. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

Her brother rubbed his brow. “How old was he, Elmo? Surely you could not sense what you were trying to destroy.”

She shook her head. “I tried to dissolve it the second Nessa let me back here after the conception, Daeron, and I stopped after a few weeks when I realized it wasn’t working!” she said, protesting his apparent judgment.

“I thought maybe it would be immediate, like it is with an Elven pregnancy that must be halted, and when I realized it was still in my chest I thought _well, good try; time to think of something else._ I started being able to feel him at the usual time, a few months on – that would be several months ago, now - and went on as normal. Nessa never said anything about him not absorbing her power or seeming weak, so I assumed my attempts hadn’t done anything.”

“And then you collapsed in the middle of court,” Daeron recalled. “I would take your place if I could, Elmo. Fie on me; for I did not realize how heavily this is wearing at you.”

Elmo huffed weakly. “I don’t think it works that way. Just be glad that you escaped it, and keep an eye on your horrible children, would you?”

“They _are_ rather an acquired taste,” he laughed, pleased at the humor. “But you may be nearly as lucky as I. Are there truly no other consequences to your adventurous attempt to escape the oath without breaking it and bringing down Valarin anger upon us all?”

She took a deep breath, looking troubled, and Daeron had a sinking feeling at what he was about to hear.

“Nessa said that from now on, it would be wise for me to spend my bearing time in her Halls,” she said bleakly. “She’s informed the other Valar that this can happen, and warned them that they must keep a closer eye on everyone to ensure that it does not happen again. Out of altruism, of course.”

Daeron paused, astonished. “She…doesn’t realize it was intentional?”

Elmo shook her head slowly. “I don’t think that possibility even occurred to her. This was just another effect of Arda Marred.” She sniffed. “But now I’ve doomed everyone else to be cloistered while they carry. Eöl already suffers so from it; what will Culúnalta and Avanië think of me?”

“Imagine!” she went on, grieved at what she had wrought in trying to save herself. “No word from us for centuries, and then Rúmil and Ingwë and Roka have to hear that oh, Elmo did something stupid and got hurt, but we don’t know what caused it and so all of you now have to be _imprisoned_ for your safety while you do this thing that you despise!”

Daeron patted her shoulder weakly. “’Despise’ might be a little strong, Elmo. As you say, we have not seen them in a long time; perhaps being in Valinor and nearer to the Valar makes it easier. Perhaps they are not even subject to it, since they live in a land of eternal peace,” he suggested, warming to the subject. “How many Maiar can there be need for, there? And Lady Yavanna and Lord Ulmo spend much time here in Endórë – I do not think they would suddenly want to secrete Lenwë and Nówë away like ours do us.”

“Wonderful!” Elmo spat. “So I have only damned a few.”

Daeron heaved a sigh and pulled away. “I do not pretend to understand exactly what you have experienced, but you _cannot_ blame yourself for the decisions of the Valar. We’ve been over this, Elmo, a thousand times; through and around and in-between.” 

She looked away grimly. “I hear it from Erestor too; yet I do not believe it. Not in this.”

He gripped her shoulder, ready to argue, and was interrupted by the door opening.

Elwë peeked through it with wide eyes. “I heard voices - Elmo, you have returned!” he said, joyful at her reappearance.

She nodded tiredly, and he opened the door properly and went to her. Daeron scooted away and out of the chair, allowing their king to take his place, and eyed Melian and Elessar who lingered now at the doorway. “I’ll let Avanië know,” he said to Elmo. Then he went to the Maiar watching them and tugged them out of the doorway and down the hall.

“Is your mother around?” he asked Elessar quietly. They shook their head, and Daeron sighed.

“What happened?” Melian asked him, chancing a look back to the receding doorway. “She left with a half-grown soul, and now returns without it.”

“Oh, he’s there,” her father replied sadly. “But something went wrong. He’s half the size he should be and out in the world, and from now on she won’t be able to stay here when she carries.”

Elessar’s eyes widened, but Melian did not seem to understand the gravity of it. “Why do you say this with such grimness? Would it not be better to stay in Nessa’s Halls, if something like this can go wrong?” she asked, confused. “You stayed with us in Vána’s for awhile after I was born, and you did not seem to mind it.”

Daeron halted and turned to his daughter, taking her hands and tilting his head up to look her in the eyes. They were far enough away from any room and speech would not reach the ears of others.

“Melyanna, the oath affects us all differently. What was pleasing to me may not be so to my sisters and brothers; the ways that your sire and I regarded each other are certainly different than the relationship that Elmo and Nessa have, or Estë and Avanië,” he continued, throwing Elessar a look. “You cannot deny that Eöl loses more of herself with every visit to Mandos, my daughter.”

Melian shook her head. “That, I have noticed. Her mind changes.”

Daeron took it and pressed on. “You must extend that same uncertainty, that same sympathy, to aught else. You cannot ever assume that one of the Quendi is always showing everything they feel, daughter; and I know that I have tried to tell you this before and gotten nowhere,” he said, thinking of Elwë.

“But _you_ can afford to show every emotion on the outside; we cannot. And that goes double for those of us who are sworn to the Valar, for we know not the full bounds of our oaths, and if they hurt our minds then we have no recourse,” he pleaded.

“I did not suffer as I know the others do; though perhaps I would have grown to if it had continued. But my sister does, and yet cannot stop the pain for it might mean losing the protection we do receive or calling down Nessa’s wrath which we have little defense against. It might mean losing the oath as a whole, across every settlement and nation. We might lose _you_ ,” he said gently, darkly. “I do not think you wish that.”

Melian shook her head and took her hands out of his. She looked at him for a long second, as if trying to process his words, and then she pulled him close and ran her hands along his face and down his back. She loosened her hold on her fána and let her soul expand, merging at the edge with her father’s intimately. He gasped and held on to her, clutching at the back of her dress, chasing a feeling he had not felt in centuries.

 _I know I do not always understand the things you try to teach me, but I will try to remember this. I do not want to lose you,_ she said to him in the silent sea of their minds.

Daeron shook his head, soundless. _You are all I have left of Vána on this shore, Melyanna; I could not bear to lose you either._

They came out of their heads at Elessar’s touch on their shoulders. “Someone comes,” they said softly.

Daeron sniffed, straightening, and Melian pulled herself back into her fána with a _snap_. They rearranged themselves, but when they proceeded down the hallway once more, Melian’s arm was linked to Daeron’s as if she could not bring herself to let him go.

* * *

**Year 1385 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Three Valian years later, in Valinor_ **

\--

An angry yell echoed through the halls, bouncing off marble floors and metal sculptures. Turukáno and Laurefindel looked at each other, said “Roka,” in unison, and ran for the source. They pounded through corridors, jumping through a fenced arch at one point, and only once they were through the garden and back into the building proper on the other side did they begin to hear the yelling properly.

“- _wondered_ why you’d been gone for so long! _What is he doing_ , I asked myself, _taking a damn fishing holiday_?!” she cursed, turning to the side and tossing her dark locs over her shoulder in fury. “This is absolutely worse!”

Turukáno skidded to a halt alone in a hallway intersection, his long legs carrying him further faster than Laurëfindel’s could. Rog was arguing with – was that Master Rúmil of the Lambengolmor? What was he doing here?

“Whatever is the matter here?” he asked, astonished at both the confrontation and the people involved.

They turned to him as one and said loudly, “This doesn’t concern you!”

He stood there blinking, absolutely stupefied at this reception, and Laurëfindel finally caught up.

“What did you say to them?” his Vanya friend wondered as Rog turned back to Rúmil.

Turukáno shook his head mutely.

“What did you _do_ that made them decide that? Why do we get no say in it?” Rog said furiously.

“It wasn’t _me,”_ hissed Master Rúmil. “And if you’ll excuse me, we should take this to a private room; I didn’t expect when I found you that you’d attract every prince within a league!”

Laurëfindel laughed, putting a hand on his hip. “That is what tends to happen around here! Gossip calls, you know.”

Turukáno shoved him. “We simply wanted to make sure nothing was out of control. I will not ask what it is about, as clearly neither of you wish to explain, but – will this be resolved without outside assistance?”

“Ever the peacemaker!” Rog said in annoyance. “Yes. We’ll be off,” she announced, and grabbed Master Rúmil’s sleeve. He was a great deal shorter than her, and grimaced at the indignity as she dragged him off.

The princes watched them go, giving it up as a loss, and then turned away and set off for their walk back. Laurëfindel was already raising potential scenarios that might have led to their overly muscled dancer-friend to menacing the slight sage, eldest master of the Lambengolmor. Laurëfindel, as part of an academic guild himself, had a number of rather sordid but likely ideas; primary amongst them a love square involving an unpublished paper and two other Masters. Turukáno laughed, taken by the absurdity.

\--

Rog ended up leading them to a small general-use office near the edge of the palace complex, banging the door open and pulling Rúmil in. She kicked it closed firmly and sat them down in armchairs facing each other, and rolled her eyes when Rúmil still looked worried.

“I’m not going to jump you, Tata! I just want to know what else Vairë told you. She really kept you for the whole time?”

He sat back grumpily, crossing his arms and legs. “Most of a year. I was on writing leave when she took me, and it isn’t over yet, so praise be; I have no excuses to make,” he sighed gratefully. “But it seems that we will have to think of some for the future, if they will neither give us advance notice nor return us on request.”

“Schedule them ahead of time, maybe,” Rog muttered sourly. “’Oh dear, Lord Tulkas,” she simpered, “would you mind terribly if I just penciled you in for twenty years from now? Or actually, you know, fifty would be even better, or maybe _never-‘_ ”

She snorted. “Eru, I _hate_ spending time there! I’ll have to argue him down if it kills me.” Rog leaned back in her chair and let her head _thud_ on the frame. “ _Ugh._ ”

“Indeed,” Rúmil agreed. “Hence why I thought you should be made aware. I can suffer spending time away; Vairë’s halls are not as bothersome to me as Tulkas’ are to you, I think,” he said levelly, thinking of his sister Míriel. “But I worry for the others, and for the sheer length of time we must be absent.”

“I have asked to meet with Finwë, though he may already know. It seems likely to me that either he needs to manufacture secret, extended meetings that we might attend without prior notice, or that the newer generations will need to be made aware of the oath. He can’t make excuses forever.”

Rog grumbled. “Did she say why they decided this, or…?”

Rúmil uncrossed his arms and shifted, placing them on the high sides of his chair and propping his head on his hand. He looked discontent. “She said only that one of the others had suffered from a Creation halved. I’ve had a while to think about It now, and my only guess is to wonder if someone is in such misery that they intentionally tried to mess with the process.”

Rog tilted her head back up at him in interest. “Oh, I’ve thought of trying that before!” Then she wilted. “Guess this is a sign that I shouldn’t test it, though.”

Rúmil sighed and shook his head. “Far be it from me to interfere with whatever you get up to in relation with that maniac, Roka, but no, it seems that we would suffer for any attempt.”

Rog’s head _thunked_ back on the chair again. “Bet it was Eöl. Unless she’s already dead; in which case, I’m gonna say Enel. He was uncomfortable with the oath from the start.”

Rúmil closed his eyes, stressed. “Can we not speculate on how dead our friends are.”

She lifted her head back up and moved so that her body sprawled across the armrests, her head positioned on her arm so she could face her friend. “I think about it all the time, though. I miss them.”

Rúmil let out a long breath. “So do I, Roka. So do I.”


	24. fall into a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a moment of peace during the Years of the Trees, Nimrodel visits Eöl in Nan Elmoth and admires Anglachel.  
> Ages later, she flees Lothlórien in the wake of attacks by orcs, seeking safety in Fangorn - only to find nightmares.
> 
> Featured characters: Nimrodel, Eöl, Lórien (Irmo), Amroth  
> Secondary character: Gladuial, Anglachel, Skinbark, Lenwë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cws: slight body horror & violence; misgendering of a character who is not in the scene; hallucination  
> \- just to clarify…the forest of lothlórien will *not* be referred to by its nickname in this chapter. lórien = the vala irmo and/or said vala’s garden of healing in valinor. The elven forest that galadriel rules over = lórinand/lothlórien  
> \- bolded text is from the Unfinished Tales, chapter IV, “The History of Galadriel and Celeborn, and of Amroth King of Lórien”
> 
> Names:  
> Culúnalta = Malgalad = Nimrodel  
> Avanië = Evranîn  
> Nówë = Círdan  
> Enelyë = Elmo  
> Enel = Erestor  
> Lórien = Irmo  
> Ivon = Yavanna

**Year 1261 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Eleven Valian years after the first Dwarves settled in the Ered Luin_ **

**\-----**

Culúnalta smiled, chin propped up on her hand as she watched her friend examine her most recent creation. The darkness around them was broken up by a combination of stars and the odd little torches which Eöl had created that lit the stones and trees nearby. Nan Elmoth around them felt more beautiful and serene than ever.

Culúnalta had lately come from visiting Avanië in Doriath; she planned to stay in Nan Elmoth for a time with Eöl, who had caught her attention with her newest project. The nís had refused to reveal anything of it in letters to Doriath; and ever-curious Culúnalta had ridden east after a few short months to attend her. She would return home across the mountains when her dreams revealed that the way would be safe.

And Eöl, it turned out, had been working with her Maiar again. She had decades ago successfully persuaded Gladuial to become a forest-guardian to incredible result; Culúnalta knew that if she had come uninvited to the wood she would have ended up in a tearing, poisonous thicket of thorns. Or perhaps the den of ravenous wildlife. Gladuial had let her presence seep into the borders; into every tree and rock and hollow until her control was near-complete. And Eöl, somehow, had persuaded the Maia to answer solely to her. When Culúnalta had asked if Mandos could recall their child, Eöl had laughed. “Not anymore,” she’d said mysteriously.

And now she had completed another project in a similar vein, it had seemed. Culúnalta sat forward in interest. “What is it?”

Eöl smiled. “A sword, obviously.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not _blind_ , Eöl; you know very well that what I want to know is this: who is in it and what does it do _?_ ” She gestured at its length, which shone black and dangerous. It had an odd sort of glow that she let her eyes drift over. The longer she looked, the odder it felt; the stars, too high above to normally be reflected on a simple blade, were reflected in glimmering points on its surface. “What have you done to it?” she whispered in deep curiosity.

Eöl handed it to her across the worktable, and she took it carefully. “His name is Anglachel,” she proclaimed. “He was the most recent work of my soul and is now confined to the most recent work of my hand.”

Culúnalta looked up. Hesitantly, she asked, suspicious of the answer: “And did you ask him for permission before you did so?”

Eöl shrugged. “Of course. He was happy to offer himself.” She watched Culúnalta run a finger along the center ridge and finally slouched onto her stool. “I bought a meteorite off of Tarm, down near Sarn Athrad on the Dwarf-road, while you were gone, and thought I’d try my hand. It wasn’t nearly so interesting a blade until I coaxed Anglachel into it, and then- _then-”_ she paused. “As you can see: a work of art.”

Culúnalta laughed appreciatively and handed it back. “Have you tried it out on anything?” She wasn’t sure what kind of effect a blade imbued with a Maia of death would have, but she was always too curious for her own good. It hadn’t killed her yet.

Eöl smiled dangerously. “I have indeed. But you wouldn’t like it,” she said darkly. “I think I’m going to give it to Elwë.”

Her friend snorted, too late in bringing a hand up to cover her mouth. “I don’t think Melyanna will appreciate that.”

Eöl nodded. “I rather count on it. But she won’t show it, and he won’t be able to reject it – it’s of Nan Elmoth, ah? I’ll call it a…memento, honoring their meeting,” she laughed. “Forever will a reminder of my annoyance be in their halls.”

Culúnalta chuckled softly at her fellow oath-taker’s spite. Nearly everyone she knew had a chip on their shoulder from having to wait for Elwë to be found, whether or not they’d actually wanted to go to Valinor. Eöl’s bother was compounded by the fact that they’d been in her territory all along, hidden by the grace of Melyanna’s power.

Culúnalta had watched Enelyë and Eöl and Nówë get roaring drunk after the two had stumbled back into camp; and then laughed the next morning during the couple’s extremely public confrontation with Alaton as the three Nelyar promptly picked up the pints again.

Given the dramatic disaster of a ruling family that Doriath hosted, it was no surprise that Eöl had found peace in Nan Elmoth instead. Culúnalta was honestly surprised that Enelyë hadn’t left yet, given her wanderlust. But Daeron would never leave Melyanna, and Avanië appreciated stability and had a steady job under Elwë, who was currently surveying sites within the forest to build a city. Long habitation was expected, and with long habitation came scores of injuries that needed tending. Culúnalta understood that they would want to stay for the foreseeable future.

Nan Elmoth, on the other hand, hosted an extended series of villages in its trees, and aside from the fortified stone-works that Eöl had built around her own home, there was never going to be a single large settlement within its borders.

It was beautiful here, surrounded by quiet nature fed by her oath-sister’s child. She hoped that it would stay like this, untouched in ways that their own woods in the east were not; a haven of peace that she would always be able to retreat to.

But then she thought of Lenwë, arguing with their son over safety and responsibility, hard-pressed to keep up with Yavanna’s demands while watching over their people; Enel, who came out of every encounter with Varda shaky, no longer able to admire the beauty of the stars; Eöl, who for all her ingenuity and imagination was losing pieces of herself to Mandos and growing paler by the year; Evranîn, who had taught herself to heal through sheer willpower and was throwing herself into each assignment without understanding that she could not save everyone; and her own dreams, which showed her haunting scenes of Melkor’s workings that she dearly hoped were untrue.

Even if the world around them was beautiful, their lives were coming apart; and she would fight to keep any amount of peace intact. Doriath’s bounds were far beyond her, but Lórinand – Lórinand she would protect, dark creatures of the North be damned.

* * *

**Year 1981 of the Third Age**

**_The Balrog has awoken in Khazad-dûm; orcs have begun invading western Lothlórien_ **

\---

She pushed her horse harder as she saw the treeline emerge on the horizon; Fangorn was many miles south yet but its sight energized her. She didn’t know if Lenwë was there, but hope was as good as anything else at this point and she knew naught else to do.

She was a decent fighter, but when the orc-band had broken through her wards in the middle of the night she could do naught but escape. They had cut off all paths to the east and west, aiming for Cerin Amroth; she’d examined her options in frantic seconds and headed south.

She wasn’t sure if Lenwë would even accept her; they’d parted on fraught terms, and it had been a long, long time. But she would rather find safety in Fangorn than in the Greenwood, especially when the westernmost portion of the latter was in the control of the Necromancer of Dol Goldur - or so Amroth told her. But he had no reason to lie. And he had given her this mare on his last visit, who now served her so well. South was safer; it had to be.

As the deep greenery grew closer, she felt calmer; many miles of open land were behind her now and she could lose herself easily in these agéd trunks. She could stop _thinking_ again and live here in peace for a while – it would be easy.

She slowed the horse to a walk and finally halted at the first trees. She removed the mare’s bridle and saddle and thanked it, tossing them in a pile behind one of the larger trunks, and let the mare begin trotting west toward the waters of the Limlight.

Nimrodel began walking into the forest, enjoying the way the light dimmed and the sounds quieted. Her mind slowed in peace. She touched bark as she went, fondling leaves, taking in scents and the old air. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, appreciating how calm this place made her feel; it had been so long since she had visited, and she now regretted the long separation.

And then she felt a branch at her stomach, and bounced back a little; which was odd, because she had looked into her path earlier and seen clear space. She opened her eyes, confused, and indeed there was a branch which had not been there a minute ago!

She looked up at the tree it was attached to- up, up, and up - and realized that it was not a tree but an Ent instead.

“Ah,” she said. “Pardon my intrusion, young one.” She smiled and reached for the branch, ready to lay a hand on it in greeting, but it pushed her back and gave a _harr-umph._

She stepped back, finding her balance, and frowned. “I am sorry; have I upset you?” she asked politely. “I have fled here from Lórinand from orcs and flame, hoping to find some peace in these woods. What is your name?”

This wasn’t an Ent she was familiar with, but she only knew a few of them by appearance. Fangornë would be around somewhere, she knew, but she had no idea how to call for him, and she could never remember his name in Entish.

The Ent spoke something, but she couldn’t understand, which was a little odd because she was at least conversationally fluent in the language. She began to turn away, seeking anything that could help, when she felt a ripping pain in her stomach. She cried out and looked down to find that a six-inch-diameter branch had gone straight through her. Her head swam and she looked up slowly at the Ent.

But instead of bark and gnarled features, it was Lenwë’s face that she saw there, and they were saying something that she couldn’t hear. She knew it was full of hate, though, and she gasped, pulling back, pushing the branch out of her inch by inch, watching her blood run along the bark and her guts catch-

-and then she was heaving on soft pillows, cradled in the unfeeling embrace of fabric and metal embroidery and tassels that she couldn’t stand the sight of. She lay there, panting, palming at her unbroken belly and trying to clear her mind and eyes of the vision. Had she even _been_ in Fangorn? She had no idea how much of it had been real. Surely Lenwë- surely-

Her head dropped onto a pillow and she screamed into it viciously, hitting the carpet next to it with a clenched fist. She breathed hard and fast and tried not to fall back into the grasping clutches of the vision, but it was so difficult, even in this place that looked and felt entirely different.

And then she felt gentle hands snake around her middle and try to pull her up; but that was where the _branch had been_ and she whirled around and punched Lórien with all her might, letting loose a great scream. She was sobbing and panting, and she put her hands to her head when she saw that it was them. She fell back to the floor, shaking so hard that she feared she might never find stable ground again.

They drifted closer and knelt down, face worried and annoyingly unbruised. They reached a careful hand out to touch her head, and when she did not react they moved her arms aside and put their hands around her ribs, picking her up and settling her into their chest the way a frightened child might be comforted by their mother. They stood up and began walking in a direction that Nimrodel knew led to the Gardens.

She finally found words through the angry, scared tears that coursed down her face, and she pushed at Lórien’s chest. “I don’t want to _go_ there!”

They stopped and looked at her, running a soft hand down her face in comfort. “You are deeply troubled. I know naught else that may aid you.”

“I am _troubled_ because of _your power!”_ she cried, striking them forcefully on the shoulder. They did not flinch, but their beautiful brow creased.

“I no longer know what is real and what is not,” she hissed. “I led a people to their deaths in battle a thousand years ago because I could not distinguish the two, and now I lead myself into agony because you cannot control what I see either! Why would I want to go further into your realm? I will surely lose myself entirely and finish what you started so long ago!” she cried.

Desperately she struck them, over and over, and finally they released her. She dropped to the floor in front of them and folded, unable to command her shaking body to run, and as certain as anything that there was nowhere to go anyway: for here, everywhere was Lórien.

\--

Amroth had ridden hard to find Nimrodel. The very hour that he could feasibly leave his command dealing with the infestation of orcs, he did so. He was dismayed but unsurprised to find her home destroyed, her cave desecrated, and her river polluted with orc-filth. His fears climbed up his throat, but he forced them back with the desperate knowledge that for all her soft laziness and solitude, Nimrodel was a fierce warrior when provoked. Neither her body nor that of the horse which he had given her was evident – she had to have fled.

Amroth considered the paths the orcs had made, and the timing if she had been alerted, and it seemed to him that his love had fled southwards. He did not know what she looked for there; he did not know if she had family beyond the long-dead elf Evranîn. But perhaps Fangorn Forest held familiarity and the promise of safety, he thought; and so he followed her trail from Lórinand two full weeks after she had first galloped upon it.

It took him a full day of hard riding to reach the forest, and he arrived once it was dark. He trotted amongst the eaves, calling her name, but to no avail. He made camp in the deepest part of the night and slept ‘till the light came again; then he began his search anew.

Two days later, he found her laying against a tree listlessly only a few trunks away from the edge of the forest. She did not react when he called her name gladly, then desperately; only when he confirmed that she lived yet did he calm.

He did not want to load her up onto his horse like a sack of flour, yet he also did not want to leave them exposed at the edge of the wood. He tugged her up, and she came; and then as he walked them deeper into the trees, she stiffened and pulled away. Her hand came to lean against a tree, and then she recoiled in fear and turned to Amroth.

“I dare not go further!” she said to him, and he frowned.

“Whyever not? Surely you fled here thinking it was safe,” he replied, and reached for her hand.

She gave it to him but shook her head. “The trees will hurt me,” she told him, eyes wide and wild. “They will not let me pass!” She reached up and grasped his cheek, smoothing dark fingers over lighter skin. “We cannot risk it. Lenwë will never forgive me. If-” she stopped, eyes focusing around at nothing.

 _Lenwë?_ Amroth wondered. _The father of Denethor, the king of the Laiquendi of old?_ But then he recalled; _oh, Lenwë of the oath, who swore to Ivon, from whom the Ents sprung. Is this what she is afraid of? Ent-magic? Or is she recalling the figure of her youth?_

He did not understand her fears, and they seemed groundless to him. Worry for Nimrodel’s mind and heart was forefront in his own, and he sought only to succor her. He made camp for them there to await the morning, and once the fire was burning gently sat next to her and asked again for her hands.

Nimrodel looked at him, a little lost, and put them in his. “Amroth? You are here.”

He nodded, a knot in his throat and tears prickling at his eyes. Carefully he said, “Nimrodel, my love. What happened to make you thus?”

She looked at him blankly. Then, seeming to finally hear him, she tightened her hands on his. “Oh – oh. I hope you really are here!” He nodded, knowing naught else to do.

She stroked his hand, feeling to him only half in the present. “My dreams are everywhere, lovely Amroth,” she whispered. “It has always been a little difficult for me to tell when the visions of sleep are real, or simply alternate possibilities.”

Her eyes wandered over something unseen. “But lately I see falsehoods even in my waking hours. An Ent attacked me…!” she trailed off.

He gripped her hands firmly, looking her over. “You are uninjured, Nimrodel. There is no blood on you! I am real, I swear it.”

Her gaze returned to him. “Are you?”

He nodded desperately, tears fully in his eyes. “I am. Please, _please_ come back to me.”

She sighed. “The trouble is that I was in Fangorn, and dying; and then I was in Lórien, and they tried to fix me, and it hurt very badly; and then I am in Fangorn again, except now I am not bleeding outside but inside instead. Which is real?”

Amroth bent over, unable to breathe through the rising grief; and his love sat and watched with empty eyes.

“I cannot tell whether I am there, and they are filling me with their power, trying to anchor me with another child, or if I am speared dead by one of my friend’s children, or if my love sits in front of me laughing, crying, dying. They are all in front of my eyes,” she said, reaching out as if touching a wholly different scene.

But her hand came to land on Amroth’s head, keeled over as he was, and then she leaned forward and brought his head up. “What is there to be done for this, my love?” and she kissed him.

He answered it, wet and messy, and soared up to meet her; and unlike any time before he realized he felt her mind, large and foreign and tangled, and he realized she was trying to initiate a bond and marry him properly as he had asked so many centuries ago.

It was so, so tempting; but salt and water were still running down his face and he gasped and pulled away. “Nimrodel, _no,”_ he whimpered softly. “Not like this.”

And she pulled away from him and the frantic look was back, as if the trees were crowding around them with deadly branches and ready to kill. “Amroth,” she gasped. “I cannot return to my Lórinand; I see horrors in Fangorn; where yet can I go?”

He pulled her into a tight embrace instead, breathing into her enormous mass of hair and preparing himself. “My love, I think you must sail,” he said softly, brokenly near her ears. “And I will come with you! I will not let you go alone.”

She stiffened in his arms. “Amroth, how? How, I ask you?” She tightened her arms around his shoulders painfully. “Quendi go to now Valinor to seek healing in the very place that has so destroyed me. How am I to find peace in such a way?” she whispered.

-

And thus they argued; though it was more like supplication bouncing back and forth as each pleaded and tried as hard as they could to think of better solutions, for what they each offered appealed to neither.

They fell into an exhausted sleep wrapped in each other’s arms. When the morning came, Nimrodel felt her mind settle a little and looked over at the nér next to her. _If I have fallen into a dream, it is at least a good one_ , she thought.

The soft light of dawn filtered through the eaves and scattered across her love’s cheekbones, and when he surfaced from reverie she put her hand over his and summoned the internal strength to nod.

“If you are with me, Amroth, I will sail. Only then,” she whispered tenderly. “And if we come out of it alive, I will marry you; because I think you understand now that you are bonding yourself to more than just the lonely nís you meet in sweet corners of the woods,” she murmured, referencing in gladness the dozens of debates they had held twixt themselves in prior centuries.

He nodded and squeezed her hand, his heart full of sorrowful happiness. “As ever, Nimrodel my love; I would have no other.”

**_\---_ **

**_Amroth followed her, and at last he found her under the eaves of Fangorn, which in those days drew much nearer to Lórien. She dared not enter the wood, for the trees, she said, menaced her, and some moved to bar her way._ **

**_There Amroth and Nimrodel held a long debate; and at last they plighted their troth, "To this I will be true," she said, "and we shall be wedded when you bring me to a land of peace." Amroth vowed that for her sake he would leave his people, even in their time of need, and with her seek for such a land._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- shoutout to @greenekangaroo’s many Eöls; Tarm son of Thain is hers and I take no credit! I just couldn’t resist the reference.


	25. hands and wings and branches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The allied forces gather together towards the end of the War of Wrath; Maedhros and Maglor watch from afar as Evranîn reunites with old friends.  
> Weeks later, the atmosphere in the command tent is tense. Maglor and Elros have a standoff; Indis and Elenwë return with dreadful news. 
> 
> Featured characters: Maedhros, Maglor, Finarfin, Eönwë, Indis  
> Secondary characters: Evranîn, Elrond, Elros, Ingwion, Thorondor, Elessar, Nornorë, Elenwë  
> Tertiary characters: Lenwë, Elmo, Nimrodel, Treebeard, Aiwë, Gil-Galad, Círdan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: misgendering (swiftly corrected and not to anyone’s face) brought about by thousands of years of storytelling like a ridiculous game of elven Telephone (because that’s all that history *is*, really…)  
> \+ cw: attempted mindfuckery (with good intentions, but here we are)  
> \- I needed a 3rd row of characters for this one lol, lots of people coming together!  
> \- As usual, almost every named character is one of Tolkien’s own; I am simply corralling them into this story for my own uses. Feel free to check their origins out on Tolkien Gateway, which is an inexorably useful source.
> 
> Names:  
> Káno = Kanafinwë = Maglor  
> Inglor = Ingwion  
> Gorthaur = Sauron

**Year 583 of the First Age**

**_The weeks before the Great Battle of the War of Wrath_ **

\--

Maedhros stood upon the tall hill in the center of the encampment, slowly taking in the sprawl of tents that reached out for a league in every direction. Their host had recently met up again with the greater part of the joint allied forces in this war, and he was already exhausted from maintaining control over disputes. He let his eyes wander over the newest addition to the encampment, quite near their own, which was a large battalion of moving tree-herders.

One of the Silvan-looking elves, a slight thing with honey-brown hair drawn back in a tight bun, was kneeling on a ledge so as to be at eye-level with the largest Ent in the vanguard. They were talking to each other too quickly for it to have been in Entish. He turned to his brother.

“Káno. Does Evranîn know that elf?”

Maglor looked where he indicated and frowned. He turned to Evranîn, who had been talking with one of their captains, and tapped her on the shoulder. When she looked over, he signed: _Any idea who that is, talking to the-_ he paused. _Tree?_ he tried.

Her eyes widened in delight. Quickly she said “’Ent,’ it’s this,’” she signed alongside, “and yes, that is Lenwë! They must be here with Malgalad. You won’t be needing me for a time, no?”

Maedhros raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “All yours.” Evranîn barely stopped to read his lips before she left at a run, sword swinging at her hip. She dashed down the hill, and from their vantage point they watched her wind her way through tents and smoldering campfires.

It was less than a quarter league to her destination, and Maglor couldn’t hold back a laugh as they saw her crash directly into an elf halfway there. Evranîn’s pace had been such that the two went sprawling despite her lightness as the much taller elf took the brunt of the impact. Evranîn pushed herself up immediately, clearly apologizing, and then paused and flung herself at the elf again. The taller one had just begun to push themselves up, and they went toppling again.

Maedhros wondered at it as they embraced and the taller elf signed something at her; they must have known each other well. Evranîn jumped and nodded and then began dragging the other elf along at a run on her original route.

“She told me that her friends in Doriath had all been killed,” he said quietly. He had taken that to mean she had no other meaningful relationships beyond their camp, and it had been a strange comfort. This behavior made a lie of it.

Maglor watched as the two made it over the last few yards to the brown-haired elf and towering Ent. “The tall one is Elmo, I think; Findaráto and I met her at the Mereth Aderthad. But I cannot be sure of it with that mask over their face.”

Elrond had been listening and turned his head at that. “Elmo, brother to Kings Elwë and Olwë?” he asked in puzzlement, for that would make the elf his distant ancestor. “Surely he lived in Doriath, though,” he trailed off, half a question and half a statement. The unspoken follow-up of _Have they not all died under your swords?_ was embedded deeply in his words. Evranîn had told him much of her life, but the king’s family rarely came up, and she hadn’t named the other oath-takers.

Maglor laughed again, his tone a little bitter. “Sister to them. You’ve been listening to the Mannish bards, I see! I think that she did once live in Doriath, but often traveled; and she has lived outside its bounds ere Melian ever closed them off. Daeron told me that she is one of the oath-takers of yore. I am surprised that Evranîn knows her well enough to manhandle her like that.”

“It is more unexpected that an Avar has chosen to fight in this war, I think,” intoned Maedhros softly.

“Lenwë, you mean?” asked Elrond. “He- ah, they,” he corrected, watching the figures, “are said to be the father of the leader of the Laiquendi that died in the First Battle. Perhaps they bear a grudge against Morgoth to match ours.”

“Eminently possible,” said Maedhros, turning away. “However they came to be here, I am glad for the added forces.”

Elrond followed promptly, taking his duty as squire seriously, and Maglor remained at the hill watching over the encampments. Evranîn and Elmo had hunkered down with Lenwë and the Ent, and a fourth figure had joined them, dark as anything and with wild brown hair. They hugged Evranîn tightly, and she reciprocated.

He thought he had grown to know their best healer well in the fifty years since their slaughter of the Havens; yet he had never realized that she had old friends surviving still. Was it a lack of trust that kept her from mentioning them? He should have realized that she must have known of Elmo, and probably Daeron as well, but he had never asked how old she was.

He shook his head. If she wanted to keep that to herself; he would let it lie. They deserved nothing she was not willing to give, and it mattered not.

* * *

**The same year**

**_Four days before the Great Battle_ **

\---

The atmosphere in the command tent was one of thick worry; its occupants were stilted and drawn.

Finarfin had his hands on the thick war-table and was glaring at the map like he could intimidate it into sharing the secrets of Morgoth’s fortifications. Maedhros was sitting stiffly in a chair to the side and appeared to be intently watching the map.

The newly-christened Gil-Galad stood across from him and to the left of Finarfin, offering occasional suggestions, but seemed equally as lost for decent ideas. Their armies had been doing well, but the newest reports suggested a force of creatures as of yet unfought with abilities that none of them were sure how land-bound forces would counter. It had been decades since they had come together like this, and previous meetings had seen them more confident. Despite successful battles, the sheer destruction wrought by a war between Maiar had brought morale down in troops and leaders alike as the land was reduced to shreds and the attrition continued without clear signs of an end in sight.

Maglor was arguing with Inglor over a smaller table, finger drawing across inked lists on a sheaf of parchment that numbered the injured and dead, and of the healers tending them who might be called upon to fight.

Eönwë and Amdír and Thorondor were speaking softly together. The latter, who had a sparrow on his shoulder, had arrived with a gently transparent Maia only a few hours past. They claimed to be several days in advance of a fleet of Eagles headed by Vingilot. If they were lucky, he said, those following would make it in time for the looming battle.

It was odd, Maglor thought, to once again be surrounded by so many of the Ainur. Eönwë alone had a commanding presence; his aura spreading to fill the tent whenever he entered. With Thorondor and Nornorë in the mix, it was almost like visiting the Halls of Manwë, the Vala’s sheer power choking all present. And this was with only three of his Creations!

But the could not be everywhere at once. Maiar of many Valar wandered about the camps at will, now, lending hands and wings and branches anywhere the Quendi needed. Maglor had taken to wondering if this was the way the Wakers had lived in those first years between the First Oath and Valinor, with children of all races intermingling. Valinor had certainly never been quite like this.

Inglor snapped his fingers in front of Maglor’s face, bringing his attention back to the lists. Maglor gave him a weary look and picked up where he had left off. Their hosts had combined for several battles in the last few decades, but this one promised to be the largest. They would need all available fighters; healers could go back to the tents once the fighting was done, and if they had all been killed – that was that.

It was growing easier to lose hope with every year that passed, even as battles rendered the younger leaders triumphant. With a possible end to the war approaching, Maglor found himself less able to fight the demands of his Oath.

-

Elros had been in the tent with them when the news of Eärendil’s return broke, and the boy had pulled him away for a quiet word during a lull.

 _I Saw the Oath flare up in your soul,_ he’d said, and Maglor had gone pale. It was as if Elros was looking into his mind and witnessing a future where he reached across the war-table to slit Eärendil’s throat and took the jewel.

He flinched, glad to be in the shadows of a little-used tent. Elros stepped forward and gripped the back of his neck painfully, reinforcing his presence. His foster-son was taller than he was, now, and had a Mannish sort of bulk that Elrond lacked. Elros leaned in close, their breath mixing.

 _You are not allowed to kill him for that jewel, Maglor. I will not see it done,_ he’d said heavily, eyes gleaming with Maiarin power. Maglor’s eyes glazed over a little as the order tried to take hold. It was such a sure, calming statement, its gentle force running soothingly over the rough edges of his mind like a lake lapping at rocky shores.

 _Elros trusts you not to do it,_ it told him. _You will keep that trust._

And then the Oath reared its grimy head deep in the center and shattered the surface. His eyes cleared and he laughed grimly, a little strangled, as the pressure of Elros’ hand on his nape mixed with that of the Oath over his soul. _You wish to set a compulsion upon me, Elros? You will have to try harder than that to defeat a vow enforced by Manwë and Varda._

But beneath his words it was still a cool relief as the dregs of power which Elros had inherited from Melian floated like a faint cage around his will. The gleaming, wavering bars could not stop him if the Oath commanded he move; but their mere presence had already once tamed his thoughts when his mind turned dark. As usual, the Peredhil were the best of them.

Elros had left after that, discomfited by his own willingness to bend Maglor’s mind, and the elf had watched him walk away before going round and ducking back into the tent. Maedhros’ eyes glanced over him and then darted away, as if able to sense what had occurred.

-

Maglor sighed, rifling through the sheets beneath to pull out the list of healers from their host who had indicated willingness to fight and show it to Ingwion.

“And how many are still with us?”

Maglor shook his head and sat down, reaching for a quill. “I shall mark the ones I know; my brother might remember the others.”

Across the room, Finarfin finally sat down and spoke as Eönwë approached the war-table. “This will only work if some are land-bound. If they’re truly all wingéd as the reports indicate, our defense depends entirely on your Maiaran contingent.”

Eönwë nodded, waving Thorondor over. Amdír bowed his head and left the tent just as the glowing Maia returned.

“Oh, Elessar, welcome back. Your timing is excellent,” Eönwë said. “We must prepare for each platoon to handle several dozen of these flying wyrms, I think. How many do you think the Vingilot will be able to handle? Should we try and station additional elves aboard it, or will Eärendil have need of other Maiar?”

Elessar thought about it. “The ship cannot hold that many; I think it more prudent to have a company of Elven archers than waste land-bound Maiar in the sky.”

Maedhros looked up. “What makes you think there are so many hundreds?” he asked Eönwë. 

“The report said-” started Finarfin, frowning, and Maedhros cut him off rudely.

“I know what the report said. But those were small wryms, easy to cut down – a first sally to test our weakening forces. Morgoth does not waste his strongest creatures merely testing our strength,” he pronounced, his centuries of experience in such wars backing up his assertion.

“I think it far more likely-” his eyes darted away, towards the battlefields north of the encampment- “that Morgoth will have concentrated his work in raising but a few creatures, likely of enormous power and size, and set them upon us in the coming battle.”

“When you say enormous…” Finarfin trailed off.

Maedhros shook his head. “I cannot begin to guess. I can only relate what I know, which is that Morgoth has never been satisfied with the scale of his creatures; that Gorthaur worked relentlessly increasing their size to make them able to deal death in wider swathes. Think of the early Balrogs which we fought during the Dagor-nuin-Giliath,” he looked over at Maglor, who glanced up from the parchment and nodded, “and compare to more recent incarnates. They have vastly increased in both power and scale.”

“They were previously our size, demons of shadow and pain; now they are twice - sometimes thrice! – that and have fire of their own. No longer can one be downed with the strength of one Elda except by massive luck. I think that we must prepare to attack with battalions,” he said firmly.

Finarfin swallowed heavily and sat down, hand over his mouth. Gil-Galad and Eönwë stayed standing, frowning, and Elessar looked worried.

They turned to look at the sound of the tent flap being dragged aside, relieved for once at the interruption, and a tall Vanya entered, weary and dirty with her curly hair up in tight braids.

“Mother!” said Finarfin gladly. “We are discussing your report now. Please, join us.”

Indis nodded, looking exhausted, and wiped her brow. The flap moved again behind her and a much smaller figure came through, looking cleaner but a great deal more windswept.

“We had a brief nap and then realized we’d forgotten to add something, so we came to tell you,” Elenwë announced. “Our apologies; but at least we’ve caught you before the armies move out.” She came around and took a seat on a stool next to Maedhros and began pointing at the map; Indis moved behind Finarfin and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

“We made it nearly to Thangorodrim with the help of another scout who drew attention away in the other direction,” Elenwë explained, tracing her finger along the craggy range. “That’s where we began seeing the creatures.”

Finarfin gestured at her to continue. This had been in the report.

“What Indis forgot to write, because we saw it deep in the night and thought that it was some kind of nightmare brought on by the ash and dust,” she went on, voice low, “was that one of the cliffs was moving. It was slow, and again, we thought it due to our own confusion and wrote it off.”

Indis took up the thread from there, leaning tiredly on Elenwë’s small shoulders. “But in my dreams more was revealed, and I think now that perhaps the greatest of Morgoth’s evil creations is about to be unleashed.”

Maedhros took her meaning. “A wyrm the size of the cliffs.”

“Or larger,” Indis said quietly, voice rough.

Maedhros spoke, countenance grim. “Such a size seems impossible. And yet I had just spoken to those here of dark creatures many times larger than those you reported; your news here is too similar to the grim turn of my thoughts to be dismissed.”

Thorondor snorted. “This is ridiculous. I have not yet seen a creature larger than my own form, and I am thirty fathoms one wingtip to another. There is no way that Melkor could measure up to Lord Manwë in Creation. Surely what you saw was a dream, or hallucination-”

Indis, incensed, slammed a hand down on the map. “Your pride is misplaced, Thorondor, and I would have you put it somewhere I do not have to see it ere it lead us to ruin! Elenwë and I brought this to you because we believe it to be true, despite having no hard evidence to show for it. You would turn us aside out of _ego?_ Ingwë would be most displeased,” she hissed.

Thorondor frowned and looked away from her fierce gaze. The sparrow on his shoulder pecked at his ear in annoyance, and he pushed it away.

Indis continued in a grave tone. “I slept on it, and weary as I was, I dreamed still of memories and something I had long set aside.” Her hands turned into fists on the table, the corded muscles of her arms tensing. “Morwë once told me of a vision she had; of the chaos that would in future Ages spiral out from an action that Melkor took.”

Finarfin turned his head to look at his mother in anxious awe; Eönwë frowned as he watched her. Elenwë, as the only being present who had been alive at the time, watched her sister with old sadness.

Indis held up a hand. “Before you ask; I do not remember what it was, or if she even told me that. She spoke this to me in confidence only a short time before she disappeared. Morwë spent her days then then trying to understand the power that had transferred to her, as all the oath-takers eventually did; but she did it so intensely that she often could not parse out how likely any given scenario was, or how far in the future it would come to pass. She saw her own taking, for example, easily and in nearly every scenario. But in one – that which is most relevant now – she spoke of a giant beast made of darkness that crushed a mountain range.”

Maedhros drew in a breath at that, nostrils flaring, and Elessar gasped in dread.

“I had long forgotten it; such a monster seemed completely impossible. But the memory came to me as we slept and settled in my mind; and now I know that is what we saw. What we must prepare for,” she finished firmly. “That is what we came to say.”

Eönwë bowed his head to her. “Thank you for bringing this to us, my lady.” He turned back to the war-table then and began indicating battalions, wasting no time in rearranging plans to suit the tidings.

Maedhros stood up, ignoring his aches and shoving aside his fragmented memories, and he and Finarfin and Inglor leaned over the table. Indis and Elenwë left the tent, message delivered and too worn to join in on strategizing. Thorondor, somewhat abashed, lingered behind Eönwë and listened in on the discussion.

Maglor shook his head. He needed some fresh air after that revelation. “I must find food; I will be back shortly,” he said to his brother.

Elessar joined him in leaving the tent. “I’m no substitute for Lord Eärendil,” they said at his curious look. “Thorondor knows better than I the capabilities of the Vingilot in the air, anyway.”

They wandered together to a grassy area between tents where food was set out. Maglor saw that Evranîn was on the other end, which reminded him that he had wanted to see if he could find Elmo. He could check in with the scout-master to see where she was; he would be back at the command tent quickly enough afterwards.

He grabbed a winter apple and a steaming potato and then nodded to Elessar before he jogged between two tents in the direction of the scouts’ camp. His mind was too full to think of strategy; he just wanted to bask in the easy reward of finding someone he hadn’t seen in centuries.

\--


	26. dry as old bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle of the War of Wrath looms. The Noldorin hosts move out, led by Maedhros and Gil-Galad; Lenwë and their small army of Ents stop by en route to confirm something, and leave having confirmed something else entirely.  
> Years earlier, Evranîn finds her favorite daughter on Eärendil’s breast and they tuck themselves away for a happy reunion; they are surprised to meet again during the War of Wrath.  
> Lastly, Elrond has seen many years of war - but nothing quite like the Great Battle.
> 
> Featured characters: Maedhros, Gil-Galad, Lenwë, Evranîn, Elessar, Elrond  
> Secondary characters: Treebeard, Radagast, Eärendil, Gereth, Hlónanís, Dailir, Eönwë, Nornorë, Thorondor, Ancalagon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- bolded text is from HoME, The War of the Jewels, “The Last Chapters of the Quenta Silmarillion”. sexy line, am I right?? (& the ending bit is from “The Gray Annals” in the same book)  
> \- the third scene follows directly from the end of the last scene in ch. 25, when Maglor left Elessar to go find Elmo. I’m still a little unhappy with the organization of these, sigh  
> \- also it might not have been clear, but i am disambiguating The War of Wrath from The Great Battle because a war is many battles, not just one, and this particular 'battle' lasts decades longer than the other Battles of Beleriand. For all intents and purposes in this fic, the Great Battle is the very last part of the War of Wrath. We'll blame the confusion on Bilbo's translation.
> 
> Names:  
> Ereinion = Gil-Galad  
> Helmaparma = Skinbark  
> Aiwendil = Radagast  
> Onyalië = Onodrim = Ents  
> Iminyar = in this instance, referring to Indis & Elenwë who are both called Iminyë  
> Elessar = the Elf-stone  
> Hlónanís = the River-Woman  
> Nówë = Círdan  
> Urulóki = fire-breathing dragons

**Year 583 of the First Age**

**_Two days before the Great Battle of the War of Wrath_ **

\--

The ground shook for leagues as the tree-giants cut across the dusty plain in long lines. Maedhros indicated to his regiment to remain where they were, and far to the left Ereinion did the same with his soldiers.

They watched as one of the trees, a clear fourteen feet tall if it was a foot, peeled off and swayed towards them. Maedhros beckoned Elros to stay, and urged his horse to a gallop to meet the Ent-general in the middle of its path. He caught the High King of the Ñoldor in Middle-Earth in his peripheral vision doing the same, and the three met on a little rise between their respective troops.

Or rather, the two Ñoldor met on the rise, and the Ent stayed off of it, allowing them the extra height. The earth ended in a rocky crag, and once atop it they were only a few feet beneath its face.

It hailed them with a large branch and moved its leaves aside to reveal the elf it was carrying.

“Well met, Lords,” The Ent said in slow Quenya. The elf in its arms stood up and leapt to the ground.

It was Lenwë, again, and thank goodness; it tore at Maedhros to stand and listen to such slow speech when there was assembling to be done. The old elf had a basket on their back, which they shrugged off their shoulders and balanced on their hip as they walked towards the mounted lords.

“Well met,” chorused Maedhros and Ereinion formally in Sindarin, though the latter looked disgruntled at having rhymed so afterward.

“All is well with the move-out?” the young king asked in what Maedhros could tell was an attempt to assert his separation and control.

Lenwë nodded, rummaging through the basket and pulling out two wrapped bundles. “We have about five hundred on this flank, and the rest are with Amdír and Culúnalta his general,” they said in fluent Quenya, which took the Ñoldor aback. Lenwë looked up and cocked a brow. “Would you prefer Sindarin? This is my native language, lords; Elwë’s ban had no hold on my part of our people.”

Ereinion colored and nodded. “My apologies, Lord Lenwë. Have you need of anything from us?”

“Only to know when your troops are following, and when they will be in position. The Onyalië move somewhat slower than your cavalry, as you have likely noticed. This is lembas for you, by the by.” They handed each lord a wrapped bundle and then covered the basket and situated it firmly on their back once again with efficiency.

“Ah, many thanks. We are taking a diagonal route, so as to have the space to ourselves; and within the day, for mine,” Ereinion said confidently. “Lord Maedhros’ will be another half-day after that if all goes well.”

Maedhros bowed his head slightly in agreement as he tucked the packet into a saddlebag. It was clear that Ereinion chafed at having to work with him, but he had given up the crown to Nolofinwë more than four yéni ago, now, and that vow held. He was pledged to whomever it was that wore it, whether or not his service pleased them. The boy might learn to hide his distaste better in time.

Another Maia appeared next to Lenwë suddenly, clothes bark-like and beard like the first green tendrils of spring, hair fluttering as if taking to wing. In Valarin he said, “Bearer, Amdír would like to know if you need Helmaparma here.”

Maedhros sucked in a deep breath as quietly as he could at the greeting, but Lenwë’s ears twitched and showed that they had heard. Ereinion to the side had not reacted, having little to no understanding of the language.

Lenwë replied in Quenya for the benefit of the others. “No, thank you Aiwendil; keep him with Amdír. And let them know that we are a day and a half away from position, if you please.”

The Maia bowed and blinked away, gone as soon as he had come.

Lenwë turned to Maedhros. “It bothers you that I bore them?” Ereinion watched interestedly; he was long used to living with the Lord Círdan who was bearer to Ulmo, but Lenwë was a name rarely discussed.

Maedhros swallowed tightly and wished that the Avar had not heard his lapse. “It is not that you bore them, but rather that Yavanna swore you to it. It is no matter,” he said stiffly. The offering of lembas made sense now.

Ereinion turned to look at him, confused, and Lenwë kept that piercing stare on him.

“You are the scion of Finwë who was held prisoner,” they said curiously, not having met him previously. “Those wyrms that the Iminyar beheld…?”

Maedhros clenched his fist at the reins as fire flashed through him and his vision went white. He breathed, reigning it in. “You ask too much,” he all but growled, words like stone. “If that is all, I must be back to my regiment.”

Lenwë nodded. “I apologize. You are lucky to have had the strength to make a child of your own, after that,” they said, nodding at Ereinion. “That takes courage beyond belief.”

They turned away without waiting for a dismissal and reached out to the Ent, who picked them up and bowed to those mounted. It turned away and allowed itself to fall forward a bit, gaining momentum and converting it into movement, and stomped away with ringing footfalls.

Ereinion watched them go with an open mouth and a disbelieving frown, blinking in shock. “I know my parentage is questionable, but Elbereth, that’s a new one!” he said angrily. He turned to Maedhros and narrowed his eyes as if trying to puzzle out what about the older warrior had prompted Lenwë to make such an assumption.

If fire had coursed through Maedhros before, it had since turned to ice; thickening in his veins and coating his pounding heart, climbing into his mind and seeping into his thoughts. He could not even bring himself to look at Ereinion, who was staring at him intently for perhaps the very first time in their forty-year acquaintance.

Erenion seemed to find nothing to his liking, though, and when Maedhros only stared staunchly forward after Lenwë, scars twisting his anxiety into an unfriendly frown, the younger elf shook his head. “Good day!” he said flatly and a little too loudly. He pulled his horse around swiftly and spurred it into a gallop back to his troops.

Maedhros opened his mouth and wheezed as soon as the boy was away, taking deep gulps of air into his lungs. How in the unloving fires of Angband had the Avar _known_?

Had they seen the Doom about them both, inherited through the blood of unwanted kingship? The faintest strands of auburn in his son’s hair? The fire in his eyes? It couldn’t be the nose, or the chin; Ereinion deeply resembled the young Maitimo, but torture and the passing of years had twisted Maedhros’ face far beyond recognition.

He had prepared himself for the possibility that his uncle Finarfin might realize, or his old courtly acquaintances Ingalaurë and Eönwë; but none of them had given any indication, and he’d breathed an internal sigh of relief when the years went by without any awkward conversations.

For an elf wholly unconnected with the Ñoldorin courts, who probably had no idea of the rowdy songs that bounced around Mannish taverns, to notice - as if they truly resembled each other? Maedhros, who was oft compared in appearance to the orcs he killed, being likened to beautiful young Gil-Galad, noble and peaceful and gracious? Unthinkable.

He heard Elrond calling then through his fog and realized he had been sitting on his horse staring at the Ent-march in the distance for several minutes. He swore and pulled the horse around, galloping back to the battalion.

The wind tore at his hair and clothes, and for a moment he pretended that his eyes were watering because of it too. Then he closed them firmly, tightly; and when he opened them again to see Elrond in the distance, they were dry as old bone.

\-----

**_But though Elu Thingol, great in memory, could recall the tongue of the Eldar as it had been ere riding from Finwë's camp he heard the birds of Nan Elmoth…_ **

* * *

**Year 525 of the First Age**

**_Eärendil has just proposed to Elwing_ **

\--

 _Eärendil is but a youth still_ , Evranîn thought as she watched him with Elwing. And they both were, really; but if they must be married, at least they were close enough in age that it was not troublesome.

She and Gereth exchanged tired looks across the table as the young couple talked on the balcony, faces towards the open waters and bright sun. Neither of them had had much contact with the boy before this, primarily concerned with Elwing’s care and only meeting occasionally with Eärendil’s own nurse Meleth at the supply yard.

And then as Eärendil turned, something on his chest caught the light, and her fingers tightened around her teacup. She refrained from gasping in astonishment, but dearly wanted to; for on his tunic was none other than the Elfstone, Elessar which she had last seen on Maeglin son of Eöl.

A flood of memories came upon her as its greenery wound into her mind, and she was forced to rub at her eyes briefly to stem potential tears. She took a deep breath and shook her head at Gereth, who was watching her closely, and then put her teacup down. “I’ll be in the gardens. They’re yours for the moment.”

He sighed and gestured her off, returning his attention to the loving pair as their now-sole chaperone.

Evranîn hurried out the door and down the stairs, going through arches until she reached the smallest and least magnificent of the fountain-gardens in the mansion. Nobody would disturb them here. She found a seat and waited, thoughts jumping from memory to memory. Why did Eärendil have the stone?

And then she heard a noise, and turned, and her eyes met a ghost. Elessar smiled, their glow lovely and familiar, and floated across the green. They took a gentle seat next to their bearer. _You look tired._

Evranîn turned her body on the bench and reached up to cradle Elessar’s face in her hands. Elessar solidified the areas she wished to touch so that her hands would not go right through their face.

“And you feel like nothing at all, though I wish it were otherwise,” her bearer said. “I knew not that you were still in this world! Who has had you all this time?”

 _Lord Eärendil,_ they replied. _Maeglin gave me to Itarille, and I went out of Gondolin with him as a babe. I did not know you were here either. You thought me lost?_

Evranîn nodded, brow creased in sorrowful gladness. “I heard that Anguirel had been lost with Maeglin’s death, and perhaps wrongly assumed that he had kept you as well.” She stroked Elessar’s cheek and then placed her hands back in her lap. “Eöl’s earthly creations seemed to have all met bad ends; I gave up the hope of finding you a long time ago.”

Elessar reached out to tuck Evranîn’s silver hair back behind her ears. _Anguirel is still here, somewhere_ , they said solemnly. _He fell with Maeglin over the battlements; that alone is not enough to kill one of us. And I think I will persist for a long time; my fate is entwined with the land on this side of the ocean. Valinor does not feel like home to me now, if ever it did_.

“And you still do not feel constrained by the brooch? I could get it away from him, if you do, and try to break it,” offered Evranîn, and Elessar laughed happily.

 _No, no, that is not necessary_ , they smiled, comforted greatly by the care Evranîn still displayed for them. _I knew what it would mean for my life when Lady Eöl offered me a place in it, and I have had no regrets. As you see, I have traveled quite a bit already, and think there will be more yet_.

Evranîn sighed. “If you insist. You will stay with Eärendil, then?”

Elessar nodded. _He has a touch of fate about him, I think. He will need me soon_.

Their tone was such that Evranîn did not argue. Instead, she picked up one of her child’s gentle hands and smoothed her fingers over it, the glow of the transparent flesh transferring to her own fingers and then fading out as she moved.

Of all the children she had made, Elessar was her favorite, the one she loved best if she loved any at all. It was good that she was here again, but being linked to a Peredhel ensured that their life with him would move swiftly; they would not be here long.

So Evranîn and Elessar sat there in silence, listening to the soft sound of the fountains splashing, and simply enjoyed being together once again.

* * *

**Year 583 of the First Age**

**_Four days before the Great Battle_ **

\--

Elessar watched as Lord Maglor selected a winter apple and a steaming potato. He nodded a goodbye; they bowed her head in return, watching him leave between two tents for a different part of the encampment.

They turned and said hello to two Maiar arguing about something on a bench near enormous vats of stew. Dailir they knew, having grown up with him in Doriath; he was one of Elmo’s, and like them had accepted binding to an object. They would have to find him later and ask how he had come to be here.

The other was a new face – quite literally, as it was changing every second as water dripped down it and altered the features. She introduced herself tersely as Hlónanís, Creation of Olwë and Nienna. Elessar let their spirits brush gently so that they would be able to recognize each other in the future, and then parted and made their way over to her bearer.

Evranîn looked up at their coming and greeted them gladly. “Come, come!” she said, patting the spot next to her and balancing her soup bowl and spoon in the other hand.

Elessar sat down. _I am surprised I did not see you earlier, if you have been in the command area._

Their bearer swallowed a mouthful. “Ah, yes, I’ve been working with the Fëanorians,” she said awkwardly. “You’ve missed a lot! But because of that I tend to avoid the other lords; they don’t get along well. Obviously,” she laughed grimly. “I did hear of your arrival with Eärendil earlier, and it surprised me. I rather expected that if that boy had truly made it to Valinor, then you would have stayed with your sire.”

Elessar nodded and watched her eat. _Estë said that she was glad I had been brought back to her, and that Yavanna had admiration of me and asked that I serve her for a time_.

“Her own little Silmaril, hmm?” murmured Evranîn. “And yet here you are.”

Elessar thought about that for a minute, and then decided to ignore the remark and answer the implied question instead.

_Eärendil asked that I attend him. I have learned much about sailing in my years with him and often give him advice._

Evranîn’s eyebrows raised. “My, my! Our very own mariner. Nówë would be proud of you.”

Elessar smiled and ducked their head. _Yes, I saw him some years ago on a voyage and he was quite pleased,_ they said fondly. _I missed him very much. It is difficult to be away from those who raised me for so long_.

Their bearer chewed on a bit of meat and watched the activity around them. Swallowing, she said, “It is, isn’t it.” She looked over at Hlónanís. “I miss some of them rather more than others, but I will see them all again eventually. Finwë aside, apparently,” she rolled her eyes. “He never did know when to give up.”

Elessar sighed and leaned against their bearer in exasperation and for comfort. _The oncoming battle will be very great,_ they said, changing the subject.

Evranîn slurped down the last of her soup and adjusted her semi-corporeal child against her side. “We’ll get through it. Culúnalta and Lenwë are here, you know. But you should go visit them tonight, just in case they don’t.”

Elessar made a face at the morbid thought. _I will. But first I would like to hear how you came to be fighting with Lords Maedhros and Maglor,_ they prodded. _I met them in the war-tent and they seem competent and level-headed, but I have heard of the cruel acts they have undertaken and it is difficult to reconcile their attitudes with their actions._

Evranîn sighed and patted their head. “If you insist. It is a long tale, but one whose participants you know well: for it hinges upon Eärendil’s children Elrond and Elros, and their safety. I would not be here fighting if not for them, so you must surely meet them one day!”

* * *

**Year 583 of the First Age**

**_The Great Battle of the War of Wrath_ **

\---

It had seemed to Elrond that this war might never end; the waves upon waves of orcs across the decades were endless, writhing hordes of pain and fury that they paid dearly to repel. His sword-work became mechanical, each new battle just like the old but for the updated lists of the dead.

He had thanked Maglor wearily, a few years in, for preparing them for it; his foster-father had looked at him sadly and shaken his head. _I never wanted this life for you, Elerondo._ _Your survival is the only thanks I need. Ensure that it follows._

And Elrond had nodded, sagging back against his sleeping brother. But now they were fighting beasts that the Feanorions could never have prepared them for because they _hadn’t existed._ The wyrms were terrifying, and made him glad he had never witnessed the Dagor Bragollach. He understood, now, how the Anfauglith had gotten its name.

Fire was everywhere, and poisonous ash floated through the air. Every soldier had been commanded to wear a cloth mask, made of anything that would work to protect their airways. Elrond had tried to heal too many warriors succumbing to the black lung to ever consider doing otherwise, and thus he too had donned a familiar brown mask of light wool.

Swarms of Urulóki had besieged them for days, breathing fire onto the wood-walls of the Onodrim and crushing the shields of the elven battallions. But Maedhros and Lady Indis had been correct: it was not the number of dragons that was troubling, but the size. Those that flew above the plains spreading fire and death were larger than anyone had imagined, and **the sons of the Gods were young and fair and terrible** as they darted amongst them, dealing death in turn.

In a lull of the fighting, Elrond watched as the Maia Nornorë darted and flipped around a drake some ways above them, pulling his sword in evil swipes through scaled flesh. A warrior watching from below sent up a call and all those nearby suddenly scattered, running from their fights in an effort to clear the ground. The orcs pursued, uncaring for what was going on above.

Eönwë slammed into the drake from the side and in one blow dealt its end. The great wings flapped once, twice, suspending its body; and then it began to fall, gathering speed, and hit the ground with an enormous, earth-shaking _boom._

The battlefield stilled only briefly, its combatants far too used to the falling dragons; and this one had been only fifteen fathoms besides. Thorondor half a mile away was clearly twice that! The Maiar of Manwë remained in the air where they were, feet flat as if bracing against a great invisible floor. Then they sprang away, each in different directions, and continued targeting the flying creatures.

Tearing his gaze away, Elrond wiped sweat off of his brow and then ran forward to do away with another elf’s pursuer. The two nodded at each other, panting, and looked to the north where the worst of the battle was occurring.

The peaks of the Thangorodrim loomed above the plains, craggy and vicious as ever; but above it, throwing the cliffs into deep shadow and raining fire was a positively horrifying creature that Elrond’s mind almost refused to believe existed. It was many times larger than the _Vingilot_ which even now rained attacks down upon it, darting and swaying through the air as no proper ship should have been able. The absurd blue structure, painted to blend in with a cloudless sky, had a pointed lance at its prow and was clearly a little worse for wear.

 _Our birth father is at that helm_ , he thought blankly, still a little stunned by the dragon hitting the ground so close by. Then he turned away. From here he could do nothing for that battle; as Maglor said, he must concentrate on his own survival. He took the shield off an approaching orc with one mighty swing and ended its despairing life with a second.

And so the battle passed.

\--


	27. the company is good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingwë gets bulldozed by a well-meaning teenager on his day off. She’s young enough to have grown up in a world where the first oath is current and common knowledge, and he isn’t quite prepared for her willingness to debate it.
> 
> Featured characters: Ingwë, Merillëtári, Eönwë  
> Secondary characters: Rúmil, Olwë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- alternate chapter title: “Athrabeth Ingwë ah Merillëtári”  
> \- ingwë needed a Break. Enjoy  
> \- Merillëtári is the ~modern~ Quenya version of Meril-i-Turinqi, who is In[g]wë’s great-granddaughter in the Book of Lost Tales. (they’re not family here, though.)  
> \- bolded text is from the Book of Lost Tales, vol 1, chapter V, “The Coming of the Elves and the Making of Kôr.” Thanks to @starlightwalking for asking a completely unrelated question on tumblr that had me scanning the book again haha  
> \- and thanks to @nowendil for asking a fantastic question about the Ingwë & the Vanyar many chapters ago; in the answering of it I realized I wanted to write a discussion between Ingwë and a child of his people concerning the oath. voila! 
> 
> Name guide:  
> Minyar – “first people”; the Vanyar’s (slightly presumptuous) name for themselves  
> Laurëfindel - Glorfindel

**Year 85 of the First Age**

**_Across the Sea, Elwë has forbidden the use of Quenya in his lands_ **

\--

Ingwë let his hand trail along the fine brocaded silks gently, his fingers feeling out the filé yarns of precious metals that created the delicate figures. The textiles sold at the annual market were absolutely beyond compare this year; the masters had done well.

The chiffons and gauzes draped over the wooden struts above and between each tent fluttered in the gentle breeze. Shoppers occasionally pushed them aside when they threatened to catch in braid-jewels and hairpieces, but even in annoyance there were smiles and appreciation for the surrounding art. The gentle hubbub of haggling and happy conversation was soothing, and the soft sunlight caught bits of crystal and jewels where they hung from rafters.

Each stall had its own unique way of decorating, and what Ingwë loved most about this part of the market was that it was so luxurious and eye-catching that he barely stood out. His height was less noticeable, as he constantly bent down to examine wares, and the luxurious clothing he liked to wear blended in with the wild, ever-changing fashions of the elves who most regularly perused these stores.

The piece he was looking at so fondly had a pattern of fresh strawberries, the dew-drops on them sparkling as the silver threads caught the light. He decided it would do nicely for a new summer court skirt; its weight would trail behind him pleasingly, and he could find some green chiffons to layer beneath it.

The shopkeep, a burly nís with her hair braided in tight rows, perked up when he held out a hand to signal his choice. “My king! A lovely piece. Shall I wrap it for you?”

“Yes, please do,” he said, and handed over payment. He left her to it and turned around, leaning against the counter as he surveyed the surrounding area. He’d gotten what he’d come for, but he saw no harm in spending a few more hours enjoying the atmosphere. He’d missed the market for many years and was loath to leave.

The shopkeep eventually cleared her throat and handed him a paper-wrapped parcel when he turned, and he nodded his thanks and wished her good business. He made his way out of the textile stalls, nodding here and then to those who greeted him, and emerged out into the sunny central plaza.

He found a clear spot to settle himself on the continuous carved stone bench around the central fountain and drew his legs up and crossed them. His fabric purchase he placed behind his back as a cushion and then patted, confirming that it wouldn’t shift with weight.

He pulled a sketchbook and traveling set of leads out of his bag and settled it upon his lap. He would try to capture the lantern stalls today, he thought. The stained-glass pieces in particular attracted his eye, and he considered how he would sketch them as he found a clasp and tied back his braids. Then he bent and began sketching out perspective lines.

He’d gotten perhaps halfway through his rendering when he sensed something coming for him _fast_ and snapped his head up. He raised his book up reflexively and made room as a youth went sprawling across his lap. He stiffened at the contact; none of his people would intentionally hurt him, but he had been primed for so long to shun the sudden touch of another.

The young elf was panting as they pushing themselves up and he sighed. “Are you well, child?” he asked, hoping the gentle but slightly-too-patronizing tone would encourage them to quickly remove themselves.

“Oh – King Ingwë!” said the youth, quite shocked, craning her neck up to look at him. “I was- I was,” she trailed off, swiveling her head to look back in the direction she had come and in the process clutching on to a greater part of his robe.

“Oh, of course they ran off,” she whined. Realizing then that she was using the High King as a chair, she scrambled off quickly and bowed. “I didn’t mean to run into you, we were racing to the fountain and I wasn’t looking ahead!”

He breathed an internal sigh of relief when her grip left him. “It is no matter. Please, sit,” he offered, patting the bench next to him. “But give my arm a little room here, and you might offer advice on my sketching.”

She perked up, eyes wide, and moved eagerly to join him. To her credit, she put a little more room than most elves at that age would have between his elbow and hers. He lowered his sketchbook back to his lap and showed her what he was working on.

“Oh, it’s the lamps!” she said happily. “They’re so pretty. I’ve always wanted one.”

“Do you not have an allowance?” Ingwë asked absentmindedly as he added strokes to the paper.

“Oh no, I did, but I always had more important things to buy. I’m forty-five now though, and I’ve just started working at the glass-blower’s, so I should be able to save up some money and buy one for my nook soon.”

He hummed and nodded. “That will be lovely. That shop’s metalwork is something to behold.”

They fell into silence after that, as the young Elf – indeed closer to adulthood than adolescence now that Ingwë had the chance to observe – drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around her legs, watching him work.

Eventually, she said, “I know you probably have people saying this all the time, but…”

He startled a little at the words, having entirely forgotten that she was there. “Yes?” he prompted.

“Well, I think the oath is awful. You shouldn’t be forced to make children if you don’t want to. I thought our whole race couldn’t, as a rule! But even if it’s different with the Valar, it’s wrong.”

His pencil stopped. “You’re a little young to know about that,” he said, covering the awkwardness he felt with the veneer of adult judgement.

“My parents worship Manwë,” she complained. “They told me last year. They think it’s amazing. Amil says that it’s proper that the most powerful of the Valar should have a Minyarin husband, and that you’re special and deserve high honors. But you just felt like a regular elf when I ran into you earlier, and you haven’t sent me away for talking out of turn yet.” She made it sound as if that was a common occurrence, and he almost believed it.

Ingwë eyed her. “While I am a husband,” he said stiffly, “I am not His. And I want no honor from my people for it. Truly, I would rather you all forget about it entirely.” He tried to untense his shoulders, which had drawn up tight when she had crashed into him and did not want to relax. He reached up and tucked a stray curl behind his ear to disguise the movement.

She looked at him with a frown. “You don’t want us to know?” She paused, considering. “Oh. I guess you didn’t, but Prince Fëanor told us anyway, didn’t he.”

Then she put her chin back on her knees. “I just couldn’t imagine doing that, even to save my family. Or my friends; I guess my family can be kind of annoying.”

Ingwë smiled weakly at the bad joke and tried to go back to his sketching. “It was a different time, child. There were enormous threats on our lives and livelihoods. By allowing us to live in Valinor, the gods changed the scope of our futures. Now instead of growing up fighting, forced to become a scout or a warrior, you have grown up with a useful little allowance and you can be a glassblower, making pretty things with barely any practical value.”

He watched her make a face at his words and then shook his head, fully realizing how patronizing he had sounded. “No, it’s a good thing! In fact, it’s wonderful. We did not have such markets as this across the sea. We had the expertise, but without time and safety it could never have come into being. The Valar have given us that.”

She frowned at him. “You’re defending them?”

Ingwë raised his brows again. “Would you prefer that I did not?”

“It would just make more sense if you were mad, I guess. Doesn’t it hurt?”

His shoulders finally lost their tension as he understood what her purpose was. “Anger does not serve me. An angry leader is one who has lost his way. The Telerin king Olwë would tell you that in kingship, pragmatism, not emotion, is key - though I like to think a little of each is useful. But the point remains: A king is not his own. Surely you have heard the declaration of kingship?” he asked

“Your soul, your body, your life for your people,” she murmured, well-taught.

“And indeed, that is what we have done,” he replied. “Our thanks are your happiness.”

“How am I supposed to show that?” she groused. “Visit you every day up on the mountain and smile? Perform the Mingling dance, maybe?”

The corner of his mouth tilted upward at the absurd but sweet thought. “If you managed it, that would be welcome! However…” his eyes wandered over the lanterns again, swaying in the breeze. “I think that I would be most satisfied if you would one day show me something you make during your apprenticeship.”

She perked up. “Really? I could do that?” It was the first genuine, unplanned reaction he had seen from her.

“Of course,” he said, swiping his lead across the paper to add the waves of fluttering chiffon to the rafters. “You may have to come to the palace, as I rarely am able to spend time here,” he added a point the top of a tent, “but I welcome all visitors for audiences. How am I to guide my people if I know not their joys and woes?”

She groaned. “Now you sound like the history books.”

“Indeed!” he laughed, the sun and her easy manner finally relaxing him fully. “You have caught me. I have always enjoyed flowery language, and when we lived in Tirion the sage Quennar mocked me for it by writing all his works in the style. His books were, of course, widely used and became the foundation for many academic texts. Few realize the style spawned from caricature,” he chuckled.

The young nís gaped incredulously. “ _That’s_ why all our books are written like that? I wonder if my schoolmasters knew. You might be single-handedly responsible for driving young learners to madness!”

Ingwë smiled. “Perhaps. But I think the beauty of language can both distract and focus, if wielded well. It behooves the student to learn all ways that an argument can be made before setting out to participate.”

“You’re talking very generally, but that’s directed at me, isn’t it?” she asked astutely.

He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps. It is more than a little entertaining to me that on one of my rare days in the city, the single person presumptuous enough to initiate a conversation with me did so by crashing bodily into me as a lead-in to ask how I was, and then tried to debate the continued holding of my Oath with me - all without actually seeming to do so.”

Her face darkened with embarrassment so quickly that it was like a dye-vat had been upended over her head. She spluttered, wordless, and he went back to his drawing.

He sketched out the smooth paving-stones of the street surface for several long minutes before she spoke again.

“I apologize for my presumption.”

His pencil stalled, and he turned to her in surprise. “Ah, no – I did not mean it like that. As I said, I am quite delighted to talk with you. You are a fresh perspective, and mine is wholly agéd. I simply meant that, well,” he paused, putting the lead down and looking around the square. “Have you noticed that nobody has come up to us? And perhaps I have my hair back, and more casual clothing on, but I am still recognizable.”

She nodded, a bit confused, and he went on. “For many of the same reasons you approached me, most of the citizens here choose not to. They see it as allowing me some freedom,” he said lightly. “Even before King Fëanáro announced the Oath to all, it did not escape my people’s notice that I came to the city little. They seem to have decided that when I am upon Taníquetil holding audience at court, I may be bothered as much as anybody likes; but when I am in the city here by myself, I should remain unbothered by kingly business.”

She nodded to herself, pleased by the thought. “That makes perfect sense. Though I do feel bad for bothering you, now…”

He raised an eyebrow and picked his lead up again. “But not before, when you asked questions that could be construed as invasive about myself and Lord Manwë?”

She scoffed, embarrassed, and he was briefly overtaken by a wave of fondness for the stifled outrage and protectiveness she had shown on his behalf. If she wanted him to agree with her about his treatment, she wasn’t doing a good job of dissuading him from caring for his people. On the paper, he finished the paving stones and moved on to the flowers lining the grassy medians.

She huffed again, staring across the square, and he looked up. Eönwë was visible across the plaza, talking to a guard. He had not been there earlier; he was likely here for him. He sighed softly at the thought of returning so soon, and the youth caught the sound.

“How do you feel about _him?_ ” she said lowly. “The Will of Manwë himself.”

Ingwë cocked his head at her, saddened by her implication. “He’s my child,” he said. “He loves me dearly. You would wish in me neutrality, or worse?”

Her eyes widened as she realized how her question had sounded in context. “No! No. I didn’t mean it that way. I just – he has to listen to Lord Manwë, doesn’t he? So how kind to you can he really be?”

Ingwë was silent for a minute as the thousands of ways his children tried to make his oath easier for him came to mind. “Very,” he finally answered. “And Lord Manwë is too, in his own way. It is his kindness that we live on, here.” He turned to her. “I have enjoyed our conversation, but you must be careful with your words, child; as I said earlier, you must be more practiced in debate before you throw your weight behind such difficult arguments.”

She shrank into herself a little then, and he felt small remorse for having said it. But while it was all well and good to listen to a child’s first heavy thoughts of rebellion and empathy and discuss them logically, he could not have her thinking that the Valar were only cruel to the Quendi. It was neither true nor a useful argument, and her parents certainly would not appreciate hearing her say it.

Also, her words had touched on one of his most consistent worries. if a youth almost to their majority had these opinions on Manwë and the Valar, then it was impossible that they had not occurred to others as well. He desperately did not want to see his people’s peace devolve into the civil war which had so shattered the Ñoldor.

“It is alright,” he said finally. “I merely would like to impress upon you that I am an adult and a king, and far from the most vulnerable of our people; your empathy is better guided towards your peers.”

She looked away from him, undoubtedly displeased to be countered in such a way. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said with the pouty, insolent mien which teenagers often took on in reaction to their parents.

Ingwë wanted to laugh at her sheer similarity to his daughter Ingilyë at the same age, many years ago. “Your youth will one day limit you no longer, and from then on you must deal with a different set of strictures. Enjoy what your adolescence allows you while it lingers! I am glad that you have great empathy within you; I think that it will serve you well. But do not let it take you down the path of the Exiled unless you are prepared for what that will bring,” he said gently.

“Wait until you have finished your apprenticeship at the glass-blowers, perhaps, and then consider one with the law-guilds if you would like to study debate; or the assembly-halls if you would like to enter politics and meet me at court. But here and now you will not move me. I will enjoy what I have for as long as it is given to me, and sacrifice what I must so that you may as well.”

He gestured around at the art and craftspeople and bustling stalls surrounding them. “ **The world that we are in is but one great wonderment to me, and […] I love it wholly**.”

Turning back to his book, he added a last bit of shading on a lantern and put his lead to the side. “How do you like it?” he asked, tilting the sketch towards her as a sort of peace offering.

She leaned over and took it in from the proper angle. “It’s a little rough. Are you going to refine it, or fill in colors?”

He smiled at the honest assessment. “If I have the time, perhaps.”

A shadow fell over them then, and he looked up at his son, squinting until Eönwë’s head moved into position to block the sun on his face.

“Father.”

“Hello, Eönwë. Are you enjoying this fine day as much as we are?”

The Maia nodded, and then gave a small bow to the wide-eyed youth next to him, exchanging introductions. The nís gave her name as Merillëtári, and Ingwë realized abashedly that he had forgotten to ask for it. Perhaps she thought that he instinctively knew the names of all his people. He preferred that fantasy to the idea of her thinking he was simply too rude to care!

He blinked in surprise then, pulled out of his thoughts as his son moved closer. Eönwë brought his hand up and placed it tenderly on Ingwë’s forehead, thumbing over the jewel hanging from his diadem. “Are you well?” he asked, reaching out with a little power and flowing over the hurts he found in Ingwë’s mind.

His father’s eyes fluttered closed, relishing in the cool strength and calming love he felt there. After a minute he sighed softly. “Yes, of course.”

Eönwë’s spirit always felt as if it was flowing into his cracks and tears, pulling them back together and mending the losses. He couldn’t truly do so, of course, but Ingwë appreciated the feeling nonetheless. It made the emptiness fade for a time.

Finally, as if he were a parched horse pulling away from water before it had drunk its fill, he opened his eyes. “Thank you. Am I needed?”

Eönwë shook his head – _thank Eru –_ and removed his hand. Ingwë almost asked for it back, but stopped himself. He could curl up with his child later. “You simply came to check on me, then?” he asked, pleased.

“Yes; I found myself in the area, and remembered you had come today,” his son explained.

Ingwë smiled. “Well, I am done with my sketch here, and bought what I came for some time ago. Would you like to walk the stalls, or sit here with us? I would like to stay here awhile, and the company is good!”

Merillëtári blushed again, her cheeks darkening as she ducked her head.

“If you would have me,” Eönwë said, and then sat down on Ingwë’s other side and rearranged his robes so that he too could draw his feet up. “Tell me what you bought?”

Ingwë lit up and reached behind himself to pull out his bundle of fabric.

* * *

**Year 190 of the First Age**

**_Eighty-six years after the completion of Gondolin across the Sea_ **

\--

Ingwë surveyed the graduates with a keen eye from the balcony and smiled when he found Merillëtári amongst the group. One hundred and fifty years old, and already a journeyman Master of the law-guild! He had looked over every paper that she had sent him in the past century and had very much enjoyed watching her rise in her chosen field. The awkwardness of her dissertation topic aside, he felt like a proud grandfather once again.

Laurëfindel’s own journeyman graduation flickered in his memories, overlaying briefly upon the scene; and then he was seeing Merillëtári again. She was in scholar’s robes, the purple wool draping loosely around her figure and the silver-threaded hood covering most of her gold hair. The childish honesty and anxiety that he had once seen in her face had filled out over the years into a quiet confidence, as if she would brook no argument – and yet he knew from the Masters who had tested her that she would, and that she delighted in it.

Seeing her gaze on him, he smiled and tilted his head lightly to her, the crown heavy upon it. He would see her later; it would not do to show undue favoritism in public. Especially in front of her parents from whom she had hidden all connection with the High King!

Standing to his left, Rúmil gave him a look; fortunately, Elemmirë on the right had missed his rumination entirely.

Olwë, meanwhile, was standing beyond Elemmirë and sleeping with his eyes wide open. Ingwë would have begrudged him the behavior at such an official event had he not been too aware of the other king’s Vala-generated issues with insomnia. His Maia Núri behind him had a hidden hand on his back, gently making sure he did not tilt and fall.

“Be careful with this one, Rúmil,” Ingwë whispered, meeting his curious eyes. “She did her dissertation on the Oath.”

His friend blanched and then looked down at the assembled graduates receiving their honors with a great deal more suspicion than before.

\---

_**…and last spake Inwë, who had been gazing upon Laurelin while the others spake, and he said: “Knowing neither whence I come nor by what ways nor yet whither I go, the world that we are in is but one great wonderment to me, and methinks I love it wholly, yet it fills me altogether with a desire for light.”** _


	28. collecting histories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhausted, Bilbo and Gandalf stop by Radagast’s home after the Quest and have a discussion that leaves Bilbo’s mind churning.  
> Somewhat earlier in the Age, Rúmil and his husband enjoy a quiet moment together.
> 
> Featured characters: Bilbo, Gandalf, Hlónanís, Lenwë, Rúmil, Quennar  
> Secondary characters: Radagast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- bolded text from The Hobbit, chapter 7: “Queer Lodgings”  
> \- I originally wrote this as part of a finwë-centric chapter so it bears some traces of that, haha. (relatedly, the last chapter had an error that implied finwë was still alive in a later age - oops. this has since been corrected.)  
> \- I’m a historian by profession so bilbo as heavy-handed translator-cum-editor never ceases to amuse me. #historicallyaccurate  
> \- relatedly, nobody is ever the first to have thought of something
> 
> Names:  
> Hlónanís – The River-woman  
> Rávanan – the Wild Wood, near the Orocarni and Cuiviénen  
> Kûd-dûkan – archaic Rohirric, ‘hole-builder’. The Hobbits call themselves Kuduk in the Third Age.

**Year 2941 of the Third Age**

**_The Quest for Erebor is complete_ **

**\--**

“If you wouldn’t mind, Bilbo,” Gandalf had said, “I’d like to visit an old friend, **my good cousin Radagast,** before we find our way to Beorn’s home for Yuletide.”

Bilbo had sighed and nodded, the Baggins part of him yearning desperately for an armchair and a large pastry. Hopefully this old friend would have at least one of the two!

\--

Radagast had turned out to be another wizard, an earthy-looking one this time, with clothes like bark and birds on his shoulders. He and Gandalf had embraced, and then Bilbo had introduced himself, rather interested despite himself to know how different this one was to Gandalf. They certainly looked it!

If you had pressed Bilbo, some time before this, to wonder what the race of wizards looked like; he probably would have summoned to mind a crowd of Gandalfs. _Tall, wizened beings that radiated comfort and annoyance in turns and came in various shades of grey_ , he would have told you. But Radagast was quite colorful, in his own way, and looked to be quite a bit more in tune with flora than Gandalf was. (Gandalf mostly confined himself to smoking it.)

They were invited inside his little house, which grew out of the ground in such a way that Bilbo was painfully reminded of the length of time since he had seen his own home. It was another Big House, of course; he wondered if any of the wizards were ever his size. He would quite like an invitation to that home!

But he sat down happily, thanking Radagast for his hospitality, and wrapped his hands around the hot mug of wine that awaited. His lead-heavy eyes closed in bliss.

When he finally dragged them open again, he realized to his surprise that there were two others in the house. One was sitting across from him; her form was watery and pale, and she appeared almost like a ghost in his peripherals if he wasn’t staring directly at her. No wonder he hadn’t noticed her at first!

The other stood next to the window, leaning on the sill. She was clearly an elf, though her yellow-toned skin, eyes, and light brown hair did not look at all similar to any of the elves he’d met in the last year. Though, he supposed, if he superimposed dark hair over the light… Elrond’s councilor Erestor had that coloring as well. Perhaps they were of the same ilk?

He cleared his throat, hoping his staring hadn’t been too obvious. The watery spectre smiled kindly at him and held her hand out in the greeting that the Rivendell elves used. “I am Hlónanís, young traveler, and the figure at the window there is Lenwë.” Bilbo made to rise and return the greeting, but he was interrupted as soon as his hands met the reeds of his seat.

Gandalf, who had been hanging his hat on a protruding branch, turned around and exclaimed in surprise. “Oh, Lenwë! I did not look to see you here.” Bilbo looked up curiously, happy to earn a few more moments in his seat. Did all of these characters know each other?

“Indeed, you are lucky; for I don’t visit often!” Lenwë said and allowed Gandalf to envelop her in a warm embrace. “I live far to the east in the Rávanan and have for many Ages. It is a lengthy journey. But hello, Olórin; it has been a very long time. Who is your kûd-dûkan friend?”

Bilbo finally stood up, clumsily and a little loath to leave the comfort of the chair after so long afoot, but subservient to the demands of politeness. These folks seemed to appreciate Hobbitish custom more than the Company, at least, and it sounded like this elf knew some Shire-speak even if they were mangling it a little.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he curtseyed. Then he sat back down with a sigh. “Pardon my asking, but how is it that such diverse peoples all came to count each other as friends? I did not think to meet wood-Elf of the far East in Rhosgobel, and I know that Gandalf travels a great deal, but you, Master Radagast, appear to be quite comfortably situated here.”

Radagast laughed lightly. “I thank you for the compliment! Lenwë is my parent, Bilbo, and these other two are my cousins. I am not sure if we are friends, but rather that they are quite required to put up with me!”

Bilbo gaped. “But you’re an _elf_ ,” he said, turning to Lenwë. “…Aren’t you?” Had he misunderstood something? He wouldn’t put it past himself; he’d already incorrectly assumed their gender. Silly of him to do so after Rivendell! It was just so hard to remember that the direction of overlapping clothes meant something different in other cultures.

“I am that!” Lenwë agreed. “And not a wood-elf, actually, if the differences matter to you. I am one of the Lindi, whom the Eldar rudely call the Avari.” They sat down so that they could lean casually over the back of the chair and put a leg up across Radagast’s thick knees. “It’s a long story, though, and goes quite a-ways back in history.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened in interest, and Gandalf chuckled. “Bilbo has endless patience for stories! Be careful what you offer.”

“Oh, please tell it!” Bilbo begged. “The only tales I’ve heard lately were in Lake-town; the Dwarves keep their histories too close to their chests. I would be delighted to hear yours, and if you don’t mind, I might even write it down when I get home. I make quite a habit of collecting histories, you understand,” he declared.

Lenwë raised an eyebrow. “Well, you may be disappointed then, for I am a terrible storyteller. It will be short and clear, with me; none of the flowery language of storybooks.”

Bilbo shrugged, a little disappointed but trying not to show it. It had seemed like everybody in Rivendell and in the Elvenking’s halls had told a good story no matter who they were, but he supposed not everybody could have talent in it. “That’s fine too, I suppose,” he said. The wine was nice, and the company polite; any tale was a good tale, if it was new enough.

“Are you familiar with the Valar?” Lenwë asked him. “The beings we Elves hold as gods?”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Oh yes, I read _The Music of the Ainur_ when we stopped in Rivendell. One of the counselors lent me a copy. But I wasn’t sure how much of it was true and how much myth, and it seemed impolite at the time to ask.”

Gandalf raised his eyebrows in silent humor and quietly pulled out his pipe and its weed.

Hlónanís smiled a little wistfully at Bilbo. “We are none of us that old, and so cannot say. Master Rúmil had the tale from Lady Varda, but I am quite sure the story has changed over the years. History is like that.”

Radagast nodded and took a sip of his own drink.

Lenwë threw an arm over the back of the chair and began, seeming to Bilbo’s mind to start already in the middle of the telling. “Morgoth was plaguing our communities at a time when all Quendi still lived in relatively close bounds. The Vala Oromë found us during the worst of it, when people were routinely disappearing and entire villages would be found dead. He brought the news to the rest of the Valar, who were understandably concerned, and they agreed to offer us a deal for our safety,” they said.

Bilbo frowned, suspicious. “That sounds like a protection racket.”

Lenwë considered that and let out an amused huff. “It does, doesn’t it,” they agreed. “The benefits of retrospect! Well, we wouldn’t have survived without it, I think. And what they asked for in return was this: fourteen free and willing elves would each agree to bind to one of the Valar and help them create children.”

“That sounds like an arranged marriage,” Bilbo said slowly. “I thought Elves didn’t hold truck with that sort of thing?”

“We don’t,” Lenwë confirmed. “We thought it more of a temporary arrangement, anyway. It wasn’t, in the end; but the answer to your question is that those children are the Maiar, the wizards and spirits that you see before you.” They sat back.

 _Indeed, that was a story both short and clear!_ Bilbo thought. _Completely lacking in romance. Why, if I had written it…_

And then he realized. “Wait,” he said, turning to Gandalf. “I asked you where you came from months ago! Why didn’t you just explain this before?” he questioned, annoyed. What, had he stumbled upon some great secret?

“Ah well, the dwarves have their own version of things, you see,” said Gandalf. “The Children of other Valar than their own Maker don’t quite factor into their histories, and the last time the subject came up in their company I became embroiled in an extremely contentious debate between rival historians, neither of whom believed my account of it! I didn’t want to get into such an argument around the campfire. Lord Balin surely would have gone for my beard,” he complained, stroking the appendage.

Hlónanís snorted. “If you didn’t want to get into sticky situations you wouldn’t be on this side of the sea, Olórin. You’re not fooling anyone!”

Gandalf grinned unabashedly, the expression looking quite out of place to Bilbo on the withered, hairy face. He felt quite out of his depth here, surrounded by people whose relationships were older than his race. “Is your parent in Middle-Earth as well, then?” he asked Hlónanís. “It’s not Lenwë, is it?”

She sighed. “No, my bearer Olwë lives in Valinor. I content myself with visiting Lord Círdan his brother on occasion, and more often my cousin here in his hut, and sometimes his siblings the Ents in Fangorn. But it is a long journey, for I live very near to your Shire.”

“The Shire!” Bilbo said, his tired mind easily distracted by thoughts of home. “Why, if you visit again while I live, you simply must come for tea. Few of the Company will, I suspect, so I think I shall be quite at a loss for quality fellowship in the future.”

Gandalf harrumphed and puffed on his pipe, noticing his name had been left out.

Hlónanís smiled. “I shall! Thank you for the invitation. My daughter and I live in the forest just east of the Brandywine, and I visit her and her husband often. Though it is getting harder to leave my river as the years go by.” She turned to the other Maiar consideringly. “You don’t feel it, do you?”

Radagast shook his head, and Gandalf shrugged.

“It’s likely because you’re bound to the river, and the magic in it is fading,” Lenwë offered. “I’ve seen it happen to the forests lately. It’s slow, but the Ents forget things they should know, and the Huorns forget how to move. Though part of their lesser power is their later birth, and my own inability to give as much of myself as before,” they trailed off quietly.

The thought of the land losing its magic was troubling to Bilbo, but it reminded him of something Balin had said. “You know, the Dwarves told me that there used to be spirits in the caves and mines, helping them carve out halls and keep them safe. I had asked about the stone giants,” he explained to give context for the conversation. “But Balin said that they were merely stories now, that all of them had died out - or left, maybe,” he hurried to give another option when Radagast’s expression turned sad. “Could that be the same thing?”

Lenwë nodded. “They sound like the children of Finwë and Aulë,” they said. “Finwë was killed at the end of the Years of the Trees, and we received word during the War of Wrath that he would not be re-embodied like Elenwë. Perhaps that means that he is cut off from Aulë and they have made no more children since,” they mused. “A heartening thought!”

Bilbo found that statement rather odd. What person did not want their friend to be returned to them? Perhaps there had been animosity between them. 

Radagast reached over and pulled his parent close, as if thinking of a reality in which Lenwë had never Created him and finding it not to his liking.

Bilbo decided not to bring the thought up and moved on. “Well, if I am doing my math correctly, that would be seven thousand years, is that right? Always odd, not using Shire Reckoning,” he sighed. “That seems a mighty long time to me, but you’re immortal, aren’t you? So what could have happened to the cave-spirits? Surely not all of them could have been killed.”

Gandalf leaned forward, twiddling his pipe. “Many of them may have been. The great halls of the Dwarves in Beleriand - Nogrod and Belegost - were broken and drowned long before the present age. Moria has been infested by goblins and probably something worse since the twentieth century; Erebor, as you know, was conquered by a dragon. And the settlements in the Blue, Grey, and Red mountains and the Iron Hills are too young or small to have properly hosted spirits like that, I think,” he pronounced.

“If Aulë’s Maiar in the old kingdoms did not die or flee in the attacks, then I suspect they simply faded into the stonework, as it were, becoming one with the bedrock of each city. It is likely what I would have done, had I been bound to a place or a single people,” Gandalf decided, glancing at Hlónanís.

She nodded. “Without my daughter to visit, I surely would have done the same. My sire Nienna sends new Maiar to Middle-Earth but rarely, and they do not have any interest in meeting me.”

Bilbo thought that sounded sad and reached over to pat her hand in what most Hobbits would have considered a comforting manner. It sank through her skin, though, feeling distinctly wet, and he quickly regretted trying it.

Flustered, he offered, “Well, um, perhaps I’ve met others without realizing it?”

Lenwë hummed. “It’s possible. The Children were once everywhere, Ages ago; you could not journey for a day without meeting one. But many of their parents are gone from this world, or on the other side of the ocean; and there have been so many wars…”

Gandalf spoke up. “Our fates are connected to the Quendi. The Valar wanted us that way, so that we would understand you better; yet it also means that as your people leave these lands, so too must we.”

“Does that mean you’ll go to Valinor across the Sea?” Bilbo wondered. “You’d be able to see your parents again?”

Gandalf didn’t answer.

“Maybe we would, Bilbo,” Hlónanís said with a patient smile. “But we are here because we love this land and its inhabitants. I have lived here in Middle-Earth my whole life. If faced with the choice, I might decide to stay and fade until my power becomes one with the waters that I hold so dear.”

“Even though you could meet your bearer again if you went?” Bilbo asked, bewildered. He would give a great deal to be able to meet his parents once more. Hlónanís talked of Olwë with love, not distaste, so it seemed very strange to him that she might not want to do so.

“I have found meaning in life through other things,” she said softly. “I have been apart from him for so long that my daughter means a great deal more to me. It is different for others, of course,” she laughed, gesturing to where Radagast and Lenwë were sitting with multiple points of contact. “But though we were never meant to, many of us have had long years to learn how to live our own lives without our parents.”

“Indeed, we have become our own people,” Gandalf agreed. “For good or ill.”

Bilbo sighed. He could hardly argue with that, though he thought it made them sound rather like newly-adult Hobbits finally making it into past that threshold and marrying out of the house. He raised his wine and toasted them. “To leading our own lives and being happy about it!” he said grandly and drank. “Three wizards and an elf is not such bad company as I would have worried, after all, though a nice pie wouldn’t go amiss,” he muttered tiredly into his cup, and across the table Gandalf laughed.

Seeing that Bilbo really was quite exhausted, the Maiar began talking among themselves. He left them to it and sank into a happy little wine-enabled daze of story-planning.

 _I’ll rearrange it,_ he decided. _It’ll be much nicer with some romance. One of the god-Elf pairs are in love, perhaps, and the offer is made because they can’t bear to lose them. Or maybe one is already with child from a forbidden romp? I’ll have to map out a family tree, and see if I can’t get Gandalf to tell me who all the others are…_

* * *

**Year 1505 of the Third Age**

**_Across the Sea, the Witch-King has invaded Arnor; in less than a century the Shire will be created in Eriador_ **

**\--**

Quennar smothered a laugh in his pillow. “Are you interested in hearing what the latest theory on the oathtakers is?”

Rúmil didn’t bother looking up from the matching journal he was reading on the other side of the bed. “No.”

“Oh, but it’s riotously funny!” his husband said. “The author has postulated that one of the oath-takers – a Nameless, of course; it’d be rude to pin such a theory on one of the Kings – had met and had a tryst with a Vala before Oromë found the settlement, and that’s what prompted the Valar to make the offer. Lost love! Maybe even an early child!” Quennar laughed.

“Have they,” Rúmil murmured uninterestedly.

“The rest of it is terribly incorrect, of course, but despite myself I actually do follow their train of thought,” Quennar muttered. “How _dare_ they make so much sense and yet be so wrong. I’d tell you to show this to your students, but we’d never be able to explain _why_ it’s not true…”

Rúmil sighed. “They’re experienced scholars; what matters is the _argument_ , not veracity. Something as negligible as the truth is hardly of consequence when it comes to theorizing that someone tempted Ulmo into their waters.”

Quennar frowned. “I thought you said you hadn’t read this issue yet.”

“I haven’t,” Rúmil absently replied, fully immersed in an absolutely filthy (and only slightly likely to have been fictionalized) story of Mablung and Alaton’s first nights at the Mereth Aderthad. The Young Writer’s Guild had some extremely horny young talent that he might have to take under his wing. Some improvements could be made. Excising the parts about Kanafinwë, for example; he was firmly against smut being written about his grand-nephew. He couldn’t do a thing about the historical romances that sold like hotcakes and invariably included every single member of every royal line, but the youngsters at the Guild were a different story. He was a _mentor._ They’d have to listen. _Just write it about Prince Findaráto_ , he’d say. _Change the hair color references and it’ll be fine; they were joined at the hip anyway._

“Oh my _stars_ ,” Quennar gasped, eyes wide.

Rúmil looked over. “What?”

There was no answer for a minute, but Rúmil could feel the bed moving. He finally put his reading material down and rolled over, smashing an arm down on the wall of covers that his husband had built up to lean on. “ _What_ , Quennar?”

His husband was shaking in soundless laughter, rolling on the bed in absolute mirth. Rúmil stared in confusion as Quennar took great gulps of air to try to restore his equilibrium. He had to wipe away tears as he kept breaking out into more laughter. Rúmil sighed and poked him several times, but to no avail.

Finally Quennar calmed enough to be able to speak, but instead of doing so he got up onto his knees and pounced on Rúmil, wrestling him flat on his back on the bed and climbing on top of him. Quennar bent down and ran his hands down the sides of Rúmil’s face.

“Oh, dearest…” he trailed off.

Rúmil hissed, quite done with mysterious mirth for the night. “What!”

Quennar laughed again, high and light and full of joy. “You!”

He bent down to kiss Rúmil, and then pulled away a little. “ _You_ wrote that! You’ve been writing an article every time someone publishes something to throw them off course! I’ve been following that controversy for _five thousand years_ only to realize from a bloody casual _slip of the tongue_ that _my husband_ is the mystery author!”

Rúmil opened his mouth, closed it, and then tried again in protest. “I am not! Why would you say that!”

Quennar leaned in dangerously. “You just quoted a perfect sentence from the article without thinking about it and then said you hadn’t read it, which is exactly what someone would do if they _had written the article_ and _didn’t want their husband to know.”_

Rúmil had his hands pressed to his face covering all expression faster then Quennar could blink.

“No! No, you’re not allowed to hide! I want my revenge!” Quennar protested, laughing, trying to peel his hands away.

He gave up quickly and set his sights on a different method and better prize. He reached down behind himself and pressed _just so_ between his husband’s legs, shifting his hips overtop. Rúmil gasped and his hands curled, but they stayed covering his eyes.

Quennar laughed. “I can see your blush now, you know!” It was staining the edges of his cheeks under his hands.

He applied pressure again and spread his hand out in the way he knew that his husband loved, and Rúmil gave up and yanked him down by the front of his sleeping tunic. “Do _not_ tell the students,” he hissed.

Quennar laughed again and kissed him. “I don’t know – I think I _deserve_ something for keeping such delicious information to myself, Rúmil. You know _exactly_ how much grief this has caused me.”

Rúmil rolled his eyes and then lost himself a little, thrusting up helplessly as Quennar ground his hips down. “I was _going_ to tell you, and by the time I realized I’d forgotten,” he panted, “it was so funny that you were so bothered by it, and I thought, _why not wait and see how long it takes him_ -” he broke off as Quennar rucked up their nightshirts, exposing both of them to the cool evening air. Their cocks slid together, slick with precome, and Quennar reached down to grip them both, pleasure building slowly with the friction. He thumbed over the slit delicately and Rúmil saw stars.

Quennar leaned down and mouthed at a pointed ear, licking and nipping, and Rúmil returned the favor as soon as he could, laving at the erogenous zone. Once they had both found satisfying completion, Quennar collapsed against his husband, breathing hard.

Rúmil retained enough composure to bring a hand up and tug on Quennar’s lovely arched nose. “That was forty-five hundred years ago, and I think _I_ deserve an award for keeping it secret for that long. Or perhaps for putting up with my oblivious husband.”

“Oh, hush, you. I’m wonderful,” Quennar muttered. “How can you possibly complain right after sex? And _don’t_ say ‘practice’.”

Rúmil shrugged, a smile on his lips.


	29. giving life to metal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finwë’s legacy in Middle-Earth lives on in Maiar, Elves, and Dwarves alike. This chapter jumps around in the Second Age to visit scenes of Annatar, Celebrimbor, and Narvi – and then winds time back to the Years of the Trees, when Finwë was still part of Mairon’s life.
> 
> Featured characters: Sauron, Celebrimbor, Narvi, Finwë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: sauron dreaming delightedly of noncon (fourth scene)  
> \- neo-khuzdul name for Yavanna from here https://thedwarrowscholar.tumblr.com/post/167089161699/hi-im-a-huge-fan-of-your-work-and-find-your  
> \- ‘khal[e]brimbur’ is a fanon-khuzdul version of ‘Celebrimbor’, but I have no idea where I first read it  
> \- references to earlier chapters abound, especially 1 and 4! you may want to give those a reread if too many things seem to be going unsaid here  
> \- i've got through 33 written, sorry for the delay in posting lately! been extremely busy
> 
> Name guide:  
> Mairon – Sauron – Annatar  
> Kaminzabdûna – Yavanna

**Year 1495 of the Second Age**

**_Five years before the work on the Rings of Power begins_ **

\---

“And you don’t know how he made the Silmarils, of course,” Annatar said casually, sure that it was expected of him.

Celebrimbor rolled his eyes. “Do you really think you’re the first to ask me that?”

Annatar sighed. “I would simply be interested in knowing if I’m on the right track about imbuing power and potential sentience into an object. It’s incredible to consider; it’s been a goal of mine for a long time. Imagine, Celebrimbor; creating life out of metal…”

Despite his misgivings around the Silmarils, Celebrimbor was clearly interested, lured in by the hundreds of years in which Annatar had demonstrated kindness and eagerness to share his knowledge. “You think they were sentient?” he asked, curious to know what a Maia might think of the jewels.

“Well, they were certainly _something,_ ” Annatar answered. “I never saw them up close, so I wouldn’t know. But obviously they were more than rocks or light or magic alone. And it didn’t work out very well with the materials he used, but we don’t _have_ the light of the Trees here, and I prefer to work with metals anyway. Surely the result would be very different,” he tapped on the table. “More controllable. Your grandfather could not have had any idea of what silima would do before he made it; we have millennia of experience with ores.”

Celebrimbor conceded the point as logical. “Take me through your thoughts, Annatar, and I will tell you if my mind warns me away.”

Annatar smiled gently, his outward expression concealing the giddy, flickering flame of his internal pleasure. “Well, it came to me one day that if you simply open your mind and soul a little as you work…”

* * *

**Year 1245 of the Second Age**

**_Forty-five years after Gil-Galad turned Sauron away from Lindon_ **

\----

The downside of having to ingratiate himself into Elven settlements, it seemed, was their familiarity. Mairon wished terribly that he would stop being reminded of his father.

On bad days, it seemed that everything he did - everywhere he went - would call Finwë to mind. He would eat some basic foodstuff, not even something the Eldar were proud of, and suddenly recall that it was Finwë’s favorite.

He might see a lovely torc, the gleaming iron winding around the throat of an elf, just as he loved; and a memory of Finwë disdaining such things would suddenly form. His father thought such thick torcs were bulky and primitive even when fashioned of delicate metal strands.

He looked at statuary, and would think, _terrible work; completely lacking in aesthetic;_ and it would come to him in Finwë’s voice.

It tore at him. It was like being haunted by the ghost of someone he hadn’t even had the pleasure of killing.

* * *

**Year 951 of the Second Age**

**_Forty-nine years before the construction of Barad-Dûr begins_ **

\----

Celebrimbor laid out the design sheets on the stone in front of them and Narvi perked up. “Oh, all finished with those, are you?”

“Just some ideas, really,” he shrugged, waving a hand over his inked variations of entrance-sigils. “I’m having trouble deciding which one I’d like to use.”

Narvi laughed. “That’s the issue with you immortal types, you know. Too much time to work with leads to bad decision-making skills.”

“I can make decisions perfectly fine,” Celebrimbor grumbled. “it just takes a while.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” Narvi agreed as he shuffled through the papers. “But there, how about Mahal’s gem? That’d be a lovely dedication. You’ve given it some Ñoldorin flare, I see, with the asymmetrical tilt and the curves.”

Celebrimbor frowned, more than a bit confused. Aulë’s jewel? “That’s…oh. That star is my great-grandfather’s heraldry, Narvi. Not Mahal’s. Mahal’s sign is a mountain peak; I’ve seen it on his doors.”

“Not in our histories!” Narvi protested, amused. “Imagine if we had mountains carved into our caverns,” he laughed. “His symbol is the sixteen-pointed gem; nature and workmanship combined beyond compare. I won’t argue with your experience of His halls, but surely you’ve never been to His mansions for my own race. For all we know, the mountain is his symbol for yours and the gem is for ours!”

Celebrimbor blinked, taking that in. “I suppose that could be true.” He rubbed his chin absently. He didn’t really want to consider the deeper implications of Finwë’s sigil having been generated from a symbol of Aulë. “It’s still my great-grandfather’s heraldry, though, and that’s what I had intended that design to be. Look here,” he said, pointing to another page of sketches. “This one is my father’s, and that is my grandfather’s.”

“Odd,” Narvi replied, noting the differences. “Your grandad wouldn’t happen to be Mahal’s Consort, would he?”

The elf spluttered. “His _what?”_

“His consort!” Narvi said cheerfully. “Mahal’s married to Kaminzabdûna, of course, but he’s got an immortal Elven consort to birth him servants who are tied more closely to mortal life. You don’t have that in your stories?”

Celebrimbor sighed heavily and sat back on the stones, bracing his elbows on his knees and massaging his forehead. He felt a stress-headache coming on.

“Oh, we have it all right,” he growled. “Are you telling me that Mahal told the Fathers about it?!” He hadn’t even known what a consort was until he’d learned Taliska. It wasn’t a concept in any Elven society; his kind were generally monogamous, and those who were polygamous valued each partner equally and shared all responsibilities amongst however many there were.

But looking at it from the dwarves’ point of view, he supposed that it would be folly to consider Finwë as a spouse on the same level of Yavanna. It was surpassing odd, though, to think of his great-grandfather in that position at all!

Narvi stretched, arching his back and cracking his spine with a long movement. “Of course! He told the Fathers, and the Fathers told us; otherwise, we would’ve been mighty surprised to have the Sons appear and help us delve the first caverns!”

Celebrimbor sighed and ran his hands over his face. “All right, go ahead - regale me. What are the Sons?” He could almost taste the capital letter involved, strong as it was.

Narvi turned to him and grinned, flopping on the slates beside him “Ah, I’m so glad you asked! As usual, I won’t tell you all of it, but surely you’ve seen the rock-beasts who haunt the caverns that are still being delved? I’m fairly sure one pulled a delver out of a rockfall at some point when you were there,” he recalled.

The elf nodded. “I think so? Oh, no - they’re Maiar, aren’t they,” he groaned, closing his eyes. He gave up and levered himself down flat against the sun-warmed paving stones so that he could put his hands over his face with his elbows to the sky. Narvi had seen him do worse. “Stars, you’d think learning that I had other relatives on this side of the Sea would make me happier than I am.”

Narvi cocked his head and considered him. “I’ve got to admit, it’s mighty odd to imagine that the Sons of Mahal might be your – what, great-uncles? Grand-siblings? Ah, Sindarin hardly has a proper word for all their genders,” he complained. “First I had to wrap my brain around you knowing what the Mansions of Mahal look like; now this! You’re too old and fantastical to still be alive, Khalbrimbur. It’s a good thing you’re such a fool now and then; brings you down to my level.”

Celebrimbor’s brain was still trying to process the ridiculous news. “All is as Mahal wills it, right?” he snorted, overwhelmed and quoting a Dwarven maxim, and Narvi laughed at him for it.

* * *

**Year 1442 of the Second Age**

**_Fifty-eight years before Sauron departs Eregion_ **

\--

Celebrimbor reached down to cup strong hands around Annatar’s soft ass and the Maia arched up in pleasure, grinding against his lover. His mind was everywhere at once, even at a time like this; a piece floated back in Mordor, watching his subordinates manage the land; another watched over Tar-Súrion’s shoulder in Numenor, waiting for a weakness; a large part is hovering over the coded notes for new and terrible designs on his worktable. Only a small part is here with Celebrimbor, enjoying being pressed against a wall and plundered.

He knows that Celebrimbor finds a thrill in marring the smooth perfection that is his body; it is not the secret the elf thinks it is. He sculpted the fána like this for that very lure – he might as well have implanted it in Celebrimbor’s head himself.

They all had secrets tempting them. Annatar’s were simply a little heavier, a little more murderous, and a little less societally acceptable here in Eregion.

He pulled Celebrimbor’s head down, probably wrenching his neck, and mouthed over the tip of a pointed ear. The elf gasped and moaned, and his hands grew more insistent.

Annatar smiled and let his too-sharp teeth scrape over bare skin, sliding on drops of sweat and drawing blood at his canines.

A fresh bolt of pleasure went through him not at Celebrimbor’s thrusting but instead at the thought of all he was holding back. He truly could not _wait_ until he could chain this beautiful, powerful elf against cold, dirty stone and enjoy him in the ways he loved best. Celebrimbor would hold against physical torture in ways that Maedhros had been unable, he was sure; _this_ Fëanorian had already survived thousands of years of battle and injury. This one was no innocent babe.

What Celebrimbor would never be able to stand against was _knowledge_. Sauron would stand there and hint at things - tantalizingly, he decided, breathing hard through the earthly pleasures coursing through him.

He would stand there, and taunt; and then he would kneel down and spread him, tempt him and cosset and pleasure him just like Celebrimbor was doing to him now. He would bring him to ecstasy; and in the very moment of release, he would open his mind and allow the image of Maedhros in the same predicament to reveal itself.

\- perhaps his memories of Aulë and Finwë, next; in the throes of their own ecstasy, which Aulë had often allowed him to witness -

\- and then he would push the memories of Morgoth conquering the fresh, innocent, unknowing Maitimo –

\- and then the memories of Finwë’s kind fatherhood, of happiness and gentle touches….

He’d found during his short time with Arakáno that it was best to mix the horrors with the kindnesses. Maedhros also had responded well to the method, and it had not failed him yet. Celebrimbor’s undoing would be his own attachment to Annatar; the knowledge and the realization that his betrayal for the Rings was nearly the least of it all.

Celebrimbor would scream, but he would climax nonetheless, and the horror would compound, Sauron thought. It would be perfect. The truest conquering.

He threw his head back and screamed, encouraging Celebrimbor further as the sweat slid down their bodies. He always did his best planning in ecstasy, after all.

* * *

**Year 1250 of the Years of the Trees**

**_In this Valian year, Fëanor created the Tengwar_ **

**_\--_ **

Something made a noise behind him, and Mairon tossed his pliers to the table in vexation before turning around. “I _said_ I didn’t want advice!”

But it wasn’t Aulë standing at the door; it was Finwë, looking a little bewildered at the severe reaction. He was wearing a long black skirt and no other decorations, and Mairon thought of the paintings of life in Cuiviénen that he had once seen.

“…Would you like to talk about it?” Finwë offered awkwardly, one hand on the jamb.

Mairon took a fortifying breath and whipped back around to his worktable. “ _No_.”

A quiet huff came from behind him, and he knew without looking that his father probably had one of those silly little smiles on his face.

“I’m _fine,”_ he ground out.

Footsteps sounded. He picked up a pencil and a sheet of paper and began sketching out lines furiously, having absolutely no idea what he was drawing but needing desperately to seem like he did. The anxiety was boiling high within him; weeks of having his sister look over his shoulder and critique the pieces he had worked so hard on had worn him to the bone, and Aulë’s well-meaning offers of help had done the opposite of soothing him.

The point of his lead broke, unable to take the stress, and it was all he could do to stare at it so that he wouldn’t start crying tears of frustration in front of his father.

And then he felt hands threading through his short hair and the press of a warm chest against his back, and he closed his eyes and let Finwë’s spirit envelop his own. It was like a return to being cradled against his heart, and all the irritation and frustration he had been holding about him was muted, visible from a grey distance.

He’d known that his father could do this; his elder siblings had told him that Finwë had offered such embraces to his children freely at Cuiviénen after they were born. It was simply so rare to see him here in Valinor that Mairon had never had the chance. Finwë had stayed several years after his birth to raise him for a while, but he was a king - his people needed him. Mairon had watched him go and then turned to the forge, setting goals for himself to outmatch his siblings to become skilled in every art that their sire valued.

But Finwë had been the one to give him his name and nurture him in his early years. It was only natural that he associated his Elven parent with comfort and kindness, he thought, while his Valarin parent was a teacher and role model. Only one of them had the emotional strength of the Quendi, and it was his emotions that were troubling him now.

He opened his eyes, entirely calmed, and found that his head was resting on his father’s chest, and Finwë’s hand was on his forehead.

“Better?” his father asked kindly.

Mairon nodded, throat a little tight from the sheer awe he was suddenly feeling for Finwë’s soul-power. He pulled away and swiveled around on his stool, looking up at Finwë.

“You weren’t looking for me, were you?” he asked, a little suspicious. He hadn’t even known Finwë was here, but Aulë might have asked him to calm Mairon down.

“Sadly, no,” Finwë answered. “I was looking for your sire. But ‘tis not urgent, and I would delight in listening to you explain your current project, if you could spare the time.” He looked hopeful, and Mairon felt his cheeks heating at the thought that Finwë might listen to something he didn’t understand just to please his child.

“Oh,” he realized. “Does Curufinwë talk to you about smithwork?” he asked, wondering if Finwë might not be so ignorant as he assumed.

“He did when he was young,” his father replied, an absent smile on his face, “but he tends to only bring it up around me now if there is some commission I should know about. Findis talks about her work a little more; you might know that she is a silversmith. But Aulë says that you enjoy- ah, what’s the word in Valarin… Clock-work, moving parts?” he tried.

Mairon lit up and turned back to his workstation, pushing aside his worthless current project to show Finwë the designs for his last few. He’d already put the finished pieces in the display rooms, or he would have pulled one out to show his father.

“Automatons!” he said excitedly. “Curumo challenged me to make a flame out of metal that moved like real fire, first, and I’m not there yet but I’ve made ones that move in limited variations,” he said, tracing his pencil in the air over the drawings to show movement. “It’s a whole new field, and sire said I am foremost in it!”

Finwë clapped politely and, to his credit, looked quite interested. “You are giving life to metal, Mairon! I suppose I might find myself outmatched in that arena soon,” he joked, and Mairon rolled his eyes to hide how pleased he was.

“I only look metal on the outside, father, I’m still all spirit on the inside,” he groused. “And I only wear my arms in metal for forging, anyway. The sparks can hurt when I take on a fána like this.”

Finwë chuckled. “I’m glad you haven’t decided the pain is worth it like your sister, but I suppose you don’t lose any dexterity to thick gloves, either,” he said, eyeing the smooth metal of Mairon’s current hands. “But come; tell me what your current project is now. It must be a lofty goal to have you so frustrated, and I currently have a great deal of time on my hands.”

Mairon sighed and gave in, gathering the sketches he’d scattered around the work surface and re-ordering them to show his father. Maybe an Elven perspective was just what he needed on this.


	30. some important purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Círdan greets Gandalf, Saruman, and the Maia of the Elf-stone when they reach the shores of Middle-Earth. For some, it is a long-awaited homecoming.
> 
> Featured characters: Gandalf, Círdan, Elessar, Saruman  
> Secondary characters: Alatar, Pallando, Manwë, Yavanna, Erestor, Elrond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- bolded text is from The Unfinished Tales, part 4, ch. II, "The Istari"  
> \- sorry for the lengthy list of names about to ensue; Círdan uses the Quenya when talking to Olórin since the latter would have had little occasion to learn any Sindarin (or later Quenya) names by this point  
> \- also, new sketch of elmo & galadhon & aiwë is up! https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/643424630101721088/sat-down-and-stress-doodled-elmo-galadhon-aiw%C3%AB
> 
> Names:  
> Olórin – Gandalf  
> Curumo – Saruman  
> Aiwendil - Radagast  
> Elessar – the Elf-Stone  
> Nówë – Círdan  
> Rómestámo – Pallando  
> Morinhetar - Alatar  
> Turkafinwë – Celegorm  
> Alaton - Gwathon – Daeron  
> Culúnalta – Nimrodel  
> Avanië – Evranîn  
> Roka – Rog  
> Enel (‘Third’) - Erestor

**Year 1000 of the Third Age**

**_The One Ring has long since been completed_ **

**\--**

The shore was in sight now, and Olórin had never been so glad to see dry land. As their swan-ship pulled into the harbor, he stretched and rose, picking up his pack and slinging it across his chest. He was quite overcome by the thought of the living once again in the lands of his birth and was also more than ready to leave the strict company behind.

Said company stood next to him now, tall and thick and with a smoky aura that had spread into every corner of their ship. Curumo was probably just as sick of him, at least, he mused internally, taking some pleasure at the thought.

And then he smiled, for the figure on the dock was none other than his oath-uncle Nówë. He contained himself as best he could, but shortly after the gangplank had thumped down on old wood he had the tiny old elf wrapped in a warm embrace, engulfing him in his grey robes. “Nówë!”

Nówë laughed and thumped him on the back. “It is very good to see you, Olórin! I have missed you. And I am Círdan here, though you may call me what you like.”

Olórin squeezed him one more time and then stepped back and cleared his throat, summoning the manners that Lord Manwë would have liked him to begin with. “Of course, Lord Círdan. May I introduce my companions?” he turned and gestured to the others, who were descending the plank at a more sedate pace. “You know Aiwendil, of course…”

Círdan grinned and went to the small brown Maia with just as much pleasure as he had Olórin, pulling him into a gentle hug. Aiwendil grew a little taller in pleasure, a few branches sprouting out of his back before he waved them away and blushed. “Hello, uncle,” he said softly. Círdan patted him on the shoulder and then turned to Curumo. “Hello! I don’t recognize you, though your flame is strong indeed. You must have been born in Valinor.”

Olórin walked between them and inclined his head; his cousin was particular about formality and he suspected Círdan’s familiar manner had already made a bad impression. “This is Curumo, of Lord Aulë and King Finwë, may he rest in the Halls.”

Curumo bowed formally. “It is my pleasure to meet one of the Unbegotten. Lord Ulmo speaks well of you.”

Círdan bowed in return and then the side of his mouth quirked up. “I should hope so!” he said, turning and gesturing towards the path into the harbor. “Please be welcome; your journey was surely long, and we have been preparing food and drink ere since ere we sighted your ship on the horizon.”

Several attendants came up to them then and ushered Curumo and Aiwendil along the path. Curumo walked with his head held high, raven-black hair floating in the wind, and Aiwendil trailed behind him touching and greeting all the little plants along the path.

The city shining on the cove was lovely, sparkling in the sun with large swaths of greenery wound through walls and arches, and pools of water flooding beyond them. It was a lovely sight, architecture built to mingle with the sea - almost as if Círdan had designed it so that Ulmo could wade up into the shallows and meet him in a sun-drenched alcove or a public amphitheater. Some older areas of the city were partially submerged, columns and towers sticking up out of the water; and given the beauty of the day Olórin was not surprised to see Elves kicking about and swimming cheerfully through it.

He pointed them out, and Círdan laughed. “Yes, you’ve managed to come on the day of our annual hunt, actually! I swam out this morning and hid a little treasure in the old city, and now they all are competing to see who can find it first.”

“What does the winner receive for their efforts?” Olórin asked.

“A new boat, funded by the city,” Círdan said. “And then we take their old boat, if there is one, and redistribute that to a youth or someone in need. It works quite well as a system, and I never hide the thing in a place where strength or endurance is required. Most years the first few finders keep quiet until someone in greater need finally locates it, and they just play for the fun of it.”

“I see you have kept up your gaming, then!” Olórin laughed, remembering the elaborate puzzles and traps that Círdan had made for the early generations of children.

“Of course. How else am I to bide my time? But come now; you are hiding someone from me, though I know not where,” he waved playfully.

Gandalf raised his brows. “I am surprised you can feel them like this!” He reached into his robes and rummaged through a pocket, out of which he drew an elaborate silver brooch with a green gem. He placed it in Círdan’s outstretched hands without another word and withdrew.

Círdan grasped the brooch gently and watched as pale smoke streamed out of it. The spirit of Elessar took shape in front of them and gently grasped his hands. “Well met, uncle,” they said fondly.

Círdan smiled sadly. “It _has_ been too long!” he reached up to pat where their head was, hand moving easily through the smoke on both ends. “Really, this was much more satisfying when you were corporeal, but I suppose I won’t complain.”

“You can keep me for a while, if you like,” Elessar offered. “But I will go with Olórin when he departs.”

Círdan sighed and gestured for them to start up the path, following Curumo and the others at a distance. “I will have to ask officially why you are here when we reconvene, as Rómestámo and Morinehtar are here too, but while I have you alone – is there anything I need to know about Curumo and whatever mission you have been given?”

Olórin rolled his eyes. “All you need to know about Curumo is that he was raised in Valinor and therefore craves hierarchy and formality,” he complained. “And he may have kept to the Mansions, but he is thoroughly Ñoldorin and a Finwion besides. It shows,” he grumbled.

Círdan let out a laugh. “How impolitic of you!”

Olórin waved his hands in frustration. “I had to put up with his arrogance in close quarters for the entire trip! I swear, he was not this bad before,” he said, scratching at his beard.

Elessar sighed. “He resents that Manwë ordered you to go with him to deal with the looming threat of Sauron, I think. He would have preferred one of his brothers, or more of Oromë’s get.”

Olórin nodded and shrugged. “Yes, but Alatar and Pallando were already sent over, and Lord Oromë has had so few new Maiar lately. I do not think he would have wanted to sacrifice any others to this side of the world.”

Círdan frowned and stopped in the middle of the path. “What?”

The Maiar turned to him. “Alatar and Pallando?” Elessar ventured. “Do you not know of them…?”

“No, no,” Círdan said brusquely. “They are here; I know them well. I used their newer names earlier without realizing you would not recognize them! But what do you mean that Oromë has had new Maiar?” He frowned. “Was Míriel re-embodied?”

“Oh,” Olórin said, looking to Elessar and back. “Well,” he started.

Círdan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes?”

Olórin sucked in a deep breath through his large nose at the thought of having to explain such things and started to walk again. “Oromë found a new elf to Create with, as I understand it. Nobody’s ever asked who it was, and he never offered the name.”

Círdan hurried to keep up. “A new oath-taker?” he asked softly, an undercurrent of anger running through his tone. “Who would have agreed?” Daeron could have done so, already entwined with the oath as he was, but Círdan could not see him taking it back up for anyone but Vána.

“We don’t know, uncle,” said Elessar as they floated along next to them.

Olórin took up the thread. “There have never been as many as the other Valar produce, but new Maiar appeared from the forests often enough in the Years of the Trees that he couldn’t explain them all as Míriel’s. Huan was one of them,” he said, casting a look over at Círdan.

The old elf frowned again, lost. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Olórin pursed his lips. “Our best guess was Prince Turkafinwë. Or it _was_ , at least; because there weren’t any more during the First Age, but recently we have unexpectedly seen some new faces. We don’t have a good explanation for it, and as I said, nobody has ever asked. But my sire was not called upon, so I don’t think a full oath was made.”

Círdan nodded, a tinge of grief in his expression. “I hope they are happy and willing, whoever it is. ‘Tis a great burden, otherwise. Oh,” he started. “Are Alatar and Pallando…?”

“Alatar is Míriel’s,” said Olórin. “He was born soon after the Journey. But Pallando his brother is significantly younger.”

Círdan took his meaning and heaved a sigh. “That deeply worries me, but I suppose that it is moot. Míriel being reembodied would have granted me some happiness, but this way she is still beyond his reach.”

Elessar swirled around him in a spiritual sort of hug, and Círdan attempted to pat her head again without luck. “Ah, well, I am glad to see the two of you, at least, even if it is with another troublesome Finwion!”

Olórin would have pouted, if only it had suited his wizened form. “You might want to act as if he is the leader of our little group, uncle; he will be easier for it.”

Círdan raised an eyebrow and quirked his lips. “I suppose I could. Pity Enel is not here; he would love that challenge! But he is with Elrond now and has not visited me for a while.”

Both Maiar perked up, and Elessar beat Olórin to speaking. “Elrond, Eärendil’s son?”

Círdan nodded, enjoying their eagerness. “Yes, he’s doing well. He married Lord Celeborn’s daughter Celebrian last Age; they have three lovely children as well as a grandson. You’ll be able to meet them if you go to Imladris. But I haven’t a clue where you’re headed yet, so I suppose I shouldn’t tempt you too much!”

He turned his head to Olórin and reached out to pat his arm. “Your father will be very happy to see you, child, but I must let you know that he has left much of his history behind. Few know him as an oath-taker or even by his original name; you should not let on that you are his.”

Olórin gaped. “Things have changed that much?” he asked slowly. He knew that Valinorian culture was different from the way he had grown up, and had adjusted long ago, but he had not expected that Middle-Earth might also be altered.

Círdan waved his hands. “History has grown large and the stories faded. Some Quendi remember the oath with love, some with hate; Enel – Erestor - felt it better for his well-being to let the knowledge fade. Elmo, too, and Alaton – they both go by other names, Êlminui and Gwathon, to hide their histories,” he said. “I don’t bother, Lord that I am, and Lenwë is the same - but then again, they live so far to the East that I’ve lost track of who they even live with! I saw them near the end of the last Age and not once again since.”

They walked in silence for a minute, approaching the entry arch to the forum where Curumo was conversing with two Maiar in Elven dress.

“Are the five of you truly all who are left?” Olórin asked in sorrow.

Círdan nodded, eyes hooded. “Culúnalta and Avanië fell in the Last Alliance against Sauron, and you should already know that Roka and Eöl died with Gondolin.”

He turned to Elessar sadly. “I am surprised you came back here, my dear, with your mother gone.”

They shook their head. “I did not come for her memory. Lady Yavanna asked me to go with the Lady Galadriel and be passed on again when the time came. I have some importance yet, it would seem,” she allowed. Then she bowed to the other Maiar and faded.

“Lady Yavanna asked us to bring messages of kindness to this land,” said Curumo grandly, inserting himself into the conversation. “I do not know myself what good Aiwendil and Elessar can do for mortals, but you must appreciate that the minds of the Valar are above our own.”

Círdan looked at him with a pinched expression. “Naturally. You and your companions are welcome to tarry in my halls for as long as you need, but I sense that you have some great task ahead of you that requires a swift departure…?”

Curumo nodded. “Yes, yes. I have informed Alatar and Pallando that I will go East with them for a while; there is great work to be done in those lands. Olórin here will go to Lothlórien and then to Imladris at the order of Manwë and Varda, and Aiwendil is charged with- ah, what _are_ you charged with?” he asked the smaller Maia. “Lady Yavanna only said I must take you, not that you had some important purpose.”

Aiwendil sighed, clearly used to dealing with Curumo’s imperious behavior. “If I had one, I think I should keep it well to myself, thank you.”

Curumo pursed his lips. “Well, he will search out his parent and fall into their arms, I suppose, so East with him as well. Surely you can spare a few people to guide him?”

Círdan sighed. “Of course, Lord Curumo. But here, let us go in and find refreshment before we speak of logistics and the looming threat that you were sent to face.” He beckoned them in, and they went; and he and Olórin threw each other tired looks before the shade of the building swallowed them.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

**_Curumo and Aiwendil have left the Havens for the East_ **

\--

Círdan leaned over and pressed something into Olórin’s hand. He felt the power in it reach out into his skin and forced it back; it felt like licking flame and was entirely too curious. He realized in shock that it felt a little like Curumo did.

“What is this?” he asked in astonishment. It was such a small thing; a slender ring with a stone of flickering red set in the center. It didn’t look like it should be an item of power; only like one of the small gems that that covered the beaches of Alqualonde.

Círdan settled back, watching him. “Celebrimbor made it. Fëanor’s grandson - Tyelperinquar,” he said gravely. “It was his last great work; one of three that he made to counter Sauron.”

Gandalf closed his hand and looked up in astonishment. “Why give it to me, then?”

“You are here to counter Sauron, are you not?” he asked solemnly. “I considered giving it to Curumo, as he is of the line that made it, but I believe Celebrimbor’s intent in giving it to me was that it pass _outside_ of his lineage. You still believe in inherent good, Olórin; I see it in you.”

“But - I _fear_ Sauron, uncle! I am not one to bear power against him. In coming, I thought my advantage would be in the quiet work - supporting the small peoples of this Middle-Earth.” He paused. “I did not even want to come, to tell it truly. Not for this.”

“Then why are you here?” Círdan asked softly, and Olórin groaned and covered his face.

“Because Lord Manwë insisted! I told him that I am **too weak for such a task** , and he **said that that was all the more reason why** I should go, and commanded that I accompany Curumo. He told me that I could find the Third, as a gift, and then Yavanna said in turn that I would not _be_ the third, and Aiwendil should accompany us instead of one of Curumo’s brothers. _Aiwendil_ , who spends his days with newborn animals and the seedlings in Lórien! It was an absolute mess,” he complained.

“Emotionally, not literally, I assume,” Círdan frowned. “At least we know Aiwendil has seen war. Manwë truly would brook no argument, when you were unwilling?”

“He knows I have attachments here and that I rejected the command out of fear only. And of course, that should be nothing, because none of his own children know the meaning of the word…” he grumbled anxiously.

Círdan shook his head. “Olórin, not one being lives in the absence of fear. Fear is what drives us to protect others, and the very thing that moves Sauron to destroy us. True courage lies in being able to fight great evil despite great fear. I think you were a very good choice indeed,” he murmured.

**"For," said he, "great labours and perils lie before you, and lest your task prove too great and wearisome, take this Ring for your aid and comfort. It was entrusted to me only to keep secret, and here upon the West-shores it is idle; but I deem that in days ere long to come it should be in nobler hands than mine, that may wield it for the kindling of all hearts to courage."**

Olórin sighed, squeezing the ring again stressfully, and then bowed his head. “I will take it, then, and seek to do justice to your trust. But I hope you do not mind if I say I might pass it on in turn.”

Círdan looked at him, and the heavy wisdom and age in his eyes shook Olórin’s heart. “I do not think you will, my dear, but do what you must. Be kind, and go safely, and you will do your duty as ever you have.”

* * *

**Two months later**

**_Rivendell_ **

\--

Olórin turned, and there before him was his father, looking just as lovely as the first day he had ever beheld him. He wanted to run and throw his arms around him; to open his locked fána and emerge as fëa and meld once again with his birth parent.

But it was not to be. As Círdan had warned him, Erestor showed no outward sign of recognition. He stayed silent as Olórin offered perfunctory greetings, and in the darkness of their minds instead they met and melded.

Erestor’s joy was such that his emotions were all he could share; words had escaped him entirely. Olórin met it with all he had; _yes, yes, I am here, I have returned, I am well and you are well and I love you very much, yes, I am here and safe-_

-and then Elrond turned to introduce him to his grandson Lindir, and then the captain Glorfindel who nodded in recognition, and the advisors and managers of the House - and Erestor was swept away in the furor.

(But not before Olórin managed to step heavily on the hem of his robes, causing him to trip bodily into Glorfindel; Olórin’s absent and seemingly uncaring apology and Erestor’s deadly glare had Elrond separating them for days.)

\------

**_The note ends with the statement that Curumo [Saruman] took Aiwendil [Radagast] because Yavanna begged him, and that Alatar took Pallando as a friend._ **

**_-_ **

**_But Olórin declared that he was too weak for such a task, and that he feared Sauron. Then Manwë said that that was all the more reason why he should go, and that he commanded Olórin (illegible words follow that seems to contain word "third"). But at that Varda looked up and said: "Not as the third;" and Curumo remembered it._ **

**_-_ **

**_But Círdan from their first meeting at the Grey Havens divined in him reverence, and he gave to his keeping the Third Ring, Narya the Red._ **

****

****


	31. children are a rare gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rúmil and Míriel meet in the Halls of Vairë and discuss the fate of a friend.  
> Centuries earlier, Maedhros has just survived the Creation of Morgoth’s foulest Maia yet; Sauron finds it in his power to provide a respite.  
> Much later, two mothers of Peredhil run into each other and have an illuminating discussion.
> 
> Featured characters: Rúmil, Míriel, Maedhros, Morgoth, Sauron, Elmo, Haleth  
> Secondary characters: Ómar, Amillo, Ancalagon, Haldan, Taureth, Aiwë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: discussion of canonical character death (first scene); aftermath of forced birth (second scene)  
> \- míriel’s back!!! and a little of rúmil in a situation we haven’t seen him in yet  
> \- this kicks off one of two parent/child-heavy chapters. enjoy the third scene, because the next chapter is not going to get better~
> 
> Names:  
> Turukáno = Turgon  
> Laurëfinde = Glorfindel  
> Írissë = Aredhel  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Mairon = Sauron  
> Ancalacon = Ancalagon

**FA 400**

**_Across the Sea, Eöl has just been executed_ **

**\--**

Rúmil felt a tug on his robes and looked down. He was greeted by Ómar’s small, dark eyes looking up at him in a plea. He sighed. “No, child,” he said, not wanting to carry him or encourage the closeness. Truly, he would have left the Halls already had he not felt so poorly.

He held out a hand instead and let the boy take it in a squeeze. “I am going to the workshop, if you would like to accompany me.” He dealt with the children of other Masters, sometimes, at the university; and he had of course watched many of Fëanáro’s children grow up. But that did not mean he enjoyed the company of such young beings. Quennar often teased him for his straightforward dislike of children, but Rúmil knew his preferences and refused to apologize.

The two of them proceeded slowly through Vairë’s halls, pace limited by Ómar’s short stride, and Rúmil took the opportunity to let his eyes wander over the thousands of tapestries that adorned the cloudy stone. If there was one thing he appreciated about Vairë, it was her presidence over history. She watched it being made; she wove the truth. He could not deny his appreciation for her work even if he appreciated little else about her.

In due time, they reached a large doorway, and Rúmil twisted the handle. The door disappeared into mist and revealed a large, round room filled mostly by a gargantuan haute-lisse loom. At one end of it sat Míriel, passing color-filled shuttles through the warps to a Maia on the other side. He vaguely recognized her as one of his eldest Creations. Amillo, perhaps? The memories were foggy.

Rúmil walked over to his sister and collapsed into a low chair next to her. Vairë must have warned her that he was coming. His body ached madly, and he was glad for the high arms and pillow.

Ómar followed him over and hovered by the chair. Rúmil looked around the room hopefully, but there was no other place for the boy to sit. He sighed and gestured to his lap, and the little Maia clambered up eagerly and curled up against his chest. At least he was quiet.

Rúmil let his eyes close as his soul loosened a little and reached out in response to Ómar’s physical closeness. Warmth coursed through him.

He was startled out of reverie by sudden movement and the screech of chair legs; his sister was pushing his chair further so that she could access a new part of the tapestry. “Sorry,” he said groggily.

“It’s alright,” Míriel said kindly. “You’ve been asleep for a while now. Worse than usual?”

Rúmil nodded and pulled himself to sit straight in the deep chair, repositioning Ómar who had also fallen asleep. “He’s quite powerful, and they always seem to hurt the most.”

He looked up at the tapestry, finally having the presence of mind to examine it. “What’s this now? Did you finish the last one?”

Míriel nodded. “While you were gone, yes.” She turned on her stool and gave her brother a long, sad look. “Eöl is dead.”

Rúmil took a quick breath, distressed. “How?!”

She shook her head and turned back to the tapestry, accepting another shuttle through the warps. “It’s not good.”

Rúmil bit his tongue. “It’s death, Míriel, it’s never good. But unless Morgoth himself found her and took her away…”

“She was executed by Turukáno, Rúmil.”

His heart stopped.

It took him several seconds to process such a wholly unexpected statement; to connect the kind, eager student of architecture and wry friend of Laurëfinde with a murderous king.

“ _What?”_

Míriel gave him another minute. “Her mind could not withstand the power of Mandos. You remember how ill-suited they were to each other,” she said sadly, not expecting a reply.

His sister gave the story in brief. “Eöl lost much of herself over the years. She married Írissë not a century past, yet treated her ill, and recently Írissë fled with a child to Turukáno’s city. It seems that Eöl pursued and grew wroth,” she continued, pained. “She poisoned Írissë and cursed the child; Turukáno saw little choice but to end her entirely. Knowing the story, I am not sure I disagree with his decision,” she said quietly.

Rúmil gaped, heat prickling at the corners of his eyes. “But – Eöl!” he cried hopelessly.

“Yes,” his sister said. “This tapestry is for her.”

He sagged back against the chair and covered his wet eyes. He collected and told stories and valued every bit of history, but all too often the grief contained within them threatened to drown him.

“She won’t heal in Mandos,” he whispered.

“No,” agreed Míriel. “But I am ahead of you there. I have petitioned Lady Vairë to ask that Eöl be brought here or to Lórien instead. Oromë has left _me_ alone all this time, so there is precedent. Námo may not ask for her back immediately – or, hopefully, ever.”

Rúmil snorted. “If only.” Then he looked up. “You do realize that Oromë left you alone because he found someone else.”

Míriel took a long breath. “Yes.”

He rubbed his forehead. “You know who it is,” he said, the question clear.

“I do.” She accepted a yellow-threaded shuttle again and put it down, picking up one with white yarn instead. “For all I wish that it had not happened; they are happier than I ever was. I will not tell you and I will not interfere.”

Rúmil grimaced. Typical. “Fine.” He watched them weave shading into what was slowly becoming a sheer cliff face. “This is Ómar, by the way; don’t let him speak or you might find yourself doing things you did not intend. I’m exhausted; wake me again if I need to move.”

He closed his eyes to Míriel’s soft laugh. But images of Eöl’s fate would haunt his thoughts, waking and sleeping alike; and his inability to tell their friends in Valinor of her fate in the future would hurt almost as much. Unfortunately, that which was revealed in Vairë’s halls of events across the Sea could not leave this place.

His dreams were filled with angry words, rushing air, and sudden darkness.

* * *

**Year 1500 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Less than a year until Fingon rescues Maedhros_ **

\--

“You’ve done so well,” a deep voice crooned nearby, the sound echoing emptily off of black stone and gleaming metal.

Maedhros did not respond. His body was as the stone around him, heavy and still, and his breath rattled wetly in his throat. His eyelids were closed, but his eyes saw horrible shapes and ripples in the darkness. He was utterly uninterested in lending any thought to Morgoth’s cheer. His ears caught footsteps, and he knew that Sauron was lurking behind the dark throne in vicious pleasure that echoed his master’s.

He was so cold.

Something brushed at his bare shoulder, but his mind was too fragmented to decide what it was beyond registering warmth and pressure. But it was not painful, so he did not tense up; he merely lay there, thoughts and reactions beyond him. The thing snuffled around, clearly moving around his body, and eventually plopped down in the curve created by his elbows like a horrible sort of cat.

It wasn’t worth opening his eyes, so he ignored it. His chest ached and his throat felt like it was full of shards of glass. Pieces of him were gone, and the most recent was curling up against him in a mockery of care. He couldn’t think about it.

Whatever it was gave a little snort, sounding much like a foal, and a warm light bloomed briefly beyond his eyelids before disappearing.

Just before he drifted off, he felt a familiar touch on his naked hip. “Truly magnificent, child of Fëanáro,” Morgoth whispered, horrible promise in his voice. “She will avail us well.”

He drew away with no further touching, ill or otherwise, and Maedhros succumbed to the darkness.

-

Melkor drew back and stood, admiring the picture before him: Maedhros lying still and fetal on the dark stone of his throne room, appearing to cradle their newest Creation in his arms. He smiled, enjoying the wicked curves of his newest Maia’s spiny back-ridge and claws. Her scales were black as the night and reflected hints of blue, reminding him somewhat of Ungoliant’s initial form many thousands of years before.

This one, though, would not betray him. Mairon had ensured it.

He turned to his second and gestured him to come forth. Mairon walked eagerly to his side.

“You are pleased?”

“You have done well, Mairon,” Melkor said, stroking his hair. “This Maia will one day be more powerful than you. She will lead our armies and wreak the fullest kind of destruction.”

Mairon bowed his head, watching her. “It was no simple thing to reach into his soul and persuade her to put aside intelligence for strength so wholly. She will be many times greater than Glaurung when fully grown, I think,” he decided. “Have you thought of a name?”

“Ancalacon,” Melkor pronounced. Then he turned to Mairon and leaned down. “Ensure she grows safely and knows how to deal naught but pain.”

His lieutenant nodded, accepting the order, and looked back over at parent and child. “But she will need at least another year close to him, I deem, to truly become strong.”

Melkor frowned. “The others did not. Why would she?”

Sauron looked up at him. “They were independent from birth and had intellect enough to exist easily on their own,” he explained. “Ancalacon will be very different from Thuringwethil and Gothmog. She will be like Gostir, submitting easily to us without thought of dissent, and he needed to be near the elf for a while after birth before he grew into independence fully and was able to be sent out.” He paused and brought his hands tightly behind his back. “Also…as much as I dislike having to halt our work, my lord, this was a very stressful Creation on his soul. I would advise that we wait until Ancalacon is independent before continuing.” The cracks he had witnessed were angry and grim, twisting through the ruins of the elf’s sense of self. Sauron was not sure how much more Maedhros could take before the Void would claim him for its own.

Melkor’s face twisted briefly in anger before smoothing out. “As you recommend, lovely child.” He palmed Mairon’s shoulder. “I trust you in this, and that you will not let your own sentiment for the process bias your advice.”

Mairon twisted roughly in his grip, eyes flaming. “Never!” he spat, forcing the bubble of anxiety down into his gut.

Melkor smiled. “Put him back upon Thangorodrim, then, while we wait. He must be missing the view. Ancalacon has wings, after all – she must learn to use them.”

* * *

**Year 380 of the First Age**

**_The Haladin have lived in the Forest of Brethil for a little more than half a decade_ **

\--

“There’s a messenger for you, my lady.”

Haleth nodded and resettled her daughter on her hip, tapping her nose playfully before turning to her nephew. “Let them in.” 

He trotted back through the feasting hall and exited, appearing again through the doorway moments later. In his wake was the tallest person Haleth had ever seen, and she could sense her daughter gaping next to her. The figure, dressed in sensible travel garb with a pack strapped tightly to their back, had to bend under the doorway to enter. They followed Haldan down the rows of tables to reach the raised dais Haleth ate at with her advisors.

Her nephew bowed and moved away, and Haleth spoke. “I am Haleth, leader of these people. Identify yourself and your purpose. Who are you to come to us – some messenger of Doraith, demanding tribute?”

The person took down their fur-lined hood, revealing the pointed ears of an elf and the same silver hair that many Doriathrim bore. Haleth felt privately vindicated at her guess, only for her assumptions to be swiftly dashed.

“I am not from Doriath, Lady Haleth. I am Elmo, a courier, beholden to none; I was coming from Tol Sirion to the northwest when I realized settlement had been made in the forest. I thought I might ask your leave to rest here for a few days, and in exchange find if you have any messages you would like me to carry elsewhere.”

Haleth looked at her flatly and raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued. “You expect me to trust an unknown elf to carry anything of import?”

Elmo shrugged. “It is up to you. I will go to any settlement of free peoples, though it may take several years for your message to reach its destination as I travel far and wide. You may seal items as you wish.”

“Really.” Haleth shifted her weight. “I am to believe the Dwarves trust you for this?” They were usually her gold standard for appropriate levels of suspicion.

Elmo bowed her head. “I regularly carry missives from Gabilgothol and Tumunzahar.” She reached into the neckline of her tunic and pulled out a necklace strung with what seemed to be wooden cards. She pulled it over her head and tossed it across the distance.

Haleth caught it with her free hand and turned a card over, letting the rest rattle down the string to hang. It was graven with elf-signs. “This does not mean anything to me.”

The elf frowned, confused, and then her cheeks colored. “Ah, my apologies. It is an entry token written in Khuzdul. I should have realized you might not read cirth. But if you turn it over, you will see the seal of Azaghal, who is lord of that realm.”

Haleth did so and saw a complex rune that had been painted in a deep purple. But it was otherwise a simple piece of wood, and the seal was one she did not recognize. No surprise. She tossed it back.

“We have had no dealings with Dwarves; this proves nothing to me. But if any of my people have messages which they wish to send with you, they are free to do so. You have leave to sleep in this hall tonight and to partake in our meal. Be sure not to squander our hospitality,” she ordered. Taureth on her hip smiled, ruining the stern image she was projecting. Haleth squeezed her leg gently in annoyance.

Elmo bowed. “Your beneficence is appreciated, my lady. I will.” She turned back to young Haldan, who told her where she could put her pack and take a seat.

Haleth walked back to her chair and put her daughter down, flicking her slightly pointed ear in rebuke with a finger as the girl giggled. “Sit, now; no more surprises tonight. You can talk to the elf later.”

Taureth nodded obediently and settled in her chair, sneaking glances off at the courier. Haleth rolled her eyes, exchanging an amused glance with Haldad over the top of her daughter’s head.

\--

Haleth watched from a doorway the next morning as Elmo accepted a letter from an aged man across the green. She seemed to be explaining that a response would take a while, as she would not be going directly to its destination, and he nodded quietly in understanding. She took out an odd gray stick and scribbled on the back of the parchment before tucking it both into a metal case.

And of course Taureth was at her side, watching it all with the rapt, greedy kind of attention only an eight-year-old could summon. She asked something that Haleth didn’t catch, and Elmo laughed. Her daughter pointed upwards, to where a bird was circling high above, and the elf and the old man craned their necks. Haleth narrowed her eyes as the bird lost altitude and appeared to be coming down to the group. What an odd animal. Perhaps it was trained; one of the tools of a messenger?

As she watched, the elf opened her arms to the little bird and caught it lightly as it transformed into a little boy. Taureth and the old man jumped back and Haleth’s eyes widened in shock.

The boy hugged Elmo, nuzzling into her neck, and she settled him high on her hip, exactly as Haleth had done for her own daughter the night before. But this child was nothing like Taureth; he was unmistakably alien. His dark eyes flashed many colors at anyone who dared to look, and his skin shifted between brown and grey, sparse feathers sitting smoothly overtop. Elmo stroked them absently down his neck as they talked, and he gave little nods and gestured with his hands. She smiled at him fondly and patted his cheek before setting him down next to Taureth, who was positively vibrating with interest.

Haleth sighed internally. “Taureth!” she called out, voice stilling her daughter’s eager hands. She jogged over, one hand on the hilt of her sword at her side. “Who is this?” she asked authoritatively. She’d learned that it was best to be cautious.

Elmo bowed her head in greeting and rested her hand on the boy’s hair. “My apologies for his sudden appearance, my lady. This is my son Aiwë; he went ahead of me and my stop here was unplanned, so it took him a little while to catch up. Pardon his unusual appearance; he is but half Elven and changes often.”

Taureth’s eyes were huge, and Haleth breathed out of her nose in resignation as she visualized her daughter’s thin strands of control snapping.

“I am too!” the girl said joyfully, nodding and sending her red curls bouncing. “Aiwë, you’re like me!”

Elmo watched in amusement, clearly knowing this already, and Aiwë looked at her curiously. “I think we’re a little different,” he said, “But I haven’t met anybody quite like me, and I’ve never met anyone quite like you, so I suppose we match.” He looked up at his Elven parent. “Mama, is it alright if I talk to them for a while?”

“I’m a she!” Taureth corrected him happily, almost wiggling in anticipation.

Elmo smiled. “If Lady Haleth agrees, of course. But I was meant to be leaving this morning, so there may not be time.”

Haleth sighed. There was no harm in it. “No, go ahead. I suppose you can have another night or three. Someone can show you to the bathing house this afternoon, as long as you’re staying.” Taureth immediately tugged Aiwë off, and the old man bowed to his lady and retreated, sensing that he should be off doing something else.

Haleth looked up at Elmo and crossed her arms. “That child is not half-Man.”

The nís’ eyebrows rose at the blunt question. “No.”

“Might I remind you that I have just offered you four nights’ hospitality in exchange for nothing.”

Elmo laughed, entertained by the woman’s casually threatening manner. “You are not the first Man to have a child with an elf, my lady, and I am not the first elf to have a child with a god. Our children are not quite as unique as they might seem.”

Haleth opened her mouth in surprise. That meant- “What happens to them?” she asked urgently, dropping her arms. “How long do they live?” she whispered, suddenly desperate to have the answer.

A look of understanding came into Elmo’s eyes. “Ah - as long as they want to, I think? I have seen some who lead very Mannish lives, dying a generation or so after that parent, and others who make the choice to live with the Quendi and lead that life with all the years it entails. None of the latter have died yet to age, to my knowledge, though the eldest is…” she thought for a few seconds. “Well, I’m not actually sure what year it is, so I couldn’t tell you, but he was born about half a yéni into this Age. I only know a few personally; I am sure there are others.”

A wave of relief went through Haleth, and her shoulders relaxed. “Lord Caranthir seemed to think that your kind had only discovered ours in the past century,” she said with a smirk.

Elmo huffed. “ _His_ kind, maybe! Lord Caranthir is Ñoldorin; one of our brethren who lived across the Sea for long years. My own people have intermingled with yours for more than three centuries. The eldest of the mixed children whom I mentioned is the son of a friend of mine; his father is many years dead and he chose to live with his mother Nuin. They live in the East, still, and were quite happy last I saw them. You have at least the whole of your lifetime to spend with your daughter, and I suppose she will make her choice after that. Or perhaps she has already made it, if she does not care for her father at all?”

Haleth shrugged her shoulders. “She doesn’t know him. And he would never have agreed to part had he known I was pregnant, so he doesn’t know about her either. I had to tell her a little, since her ears and eyes are so different and she’s already taller than the other children, but I hardly want her to run off and leave us.”

She expected the elf to think badly of that decision, but instead Elmo’s gaze grew a little distant and she did not continue the questioning. Begrudgingly, Haleth asked if she was alright. 

Her eyes focused back on Haleth. “Oh, apologies. I had a similar experience, and the memories came back suddenly.”

Haleth made a face. “What, you didn’t tell your god that he’d gotten you with child?” The concept was ridiculous, but so was the idea of anyone having a child with a Power that she wasn’t even sure existed.

Elmo pursed her lips. “No, Lady Nessa is quite omniscient when it comes to my physical well-being. But I had a child with another elf some time ago in similar circumstances. My body was a little too used to making children, it seems, and I didn’t expect it. Never told him, either, and then he died before I could.”

“And what, you regret it?” Haleth couldn’t imagine a single situation in which she’d ever regret hiding Taureth from Caranthir, but she was curious what this elf had to say. Their kind had always struck her as restrained and mannerly, and hiding a surprise child was neither.

“I’m not sure it’s regret,” Elmo ventured. “But the circumstances were entirely tragic, and I feel quite badly about it. If you’ve considered all your choices and have made them freely, then perhaps you have nothing to regret. I don’t want to sound like I am judging you, for it would be entirely hypocritical, but I will caution you that for my people, children are a rare gift. If Taureth’s father ever learns that you kept her from him, he may lose hold of himself.”

Haleth snorted. “I can deal with one angry male.”

Elmo shook her head, pained. “I am sure you can! But I do not mean a loss of control. It would be a loss of heart. We feel so deeply; grief can destroy us,” she said simply. “I can’t really explain it beyond that.”

Haleth had watched several of her people fall to a despair that couldn’t be healed. Her experience with Caranthir had taught her that elves were never as unique as they thought they were. “You do not need to. And he will _never_ learn of her.”

Elmo sighed. “Don’t come crying to me when he hears of an extraordinarily long-lived, red-haired Lady of Brethil,” she huffed. “But I won’t be the one to make it known.”

Haleth inclined her head, satisfied. “Good. Come, let’s find a meal, and you can tell me about that strange blade on your back.”


	32. it almost feels like healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [and sometimes, children die.] 
> 
> Featured characters: Maedhros, Ingwë, Morwë, Ungoliant, Celegorm, Oromë  
> Secondary characters: Olwë, Rúmil, Ancalagon, Nahar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -cw: mention of suicide  
> \- gandalf looks at shadowfax and winks: “I’ve always wanted to ride a finwëan”  
> \- turns out that when an unlicensed vala yanks pieces of you out and puts them in new beings like the world’s worst horcrux, helping other people kill those creatures kind of wrecks you too  
> \- 32 chapters in and we finally get an olwë pov - sorry ‘bout the delay, old sport!  
> \- art of lenwë, culúnalta, & denethor as well as another of elmo & galadhon & aiwe is up for #diversetolkienweek on tumblr! - https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/643843549337649152/ & https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/644018859197775872/
> 
> Names:  
> Ancalacon = Ancalagon  
> Inglor = Ingalaurë = Ingwion  
> Ingil = Ingilyë = Ingwiel  
> Virilomë = another name for Ungoliant  
> Morinehtar = Alatar  
> Romestamo = Pallando  
> Tyelkormo = Celegorm

**Year 583 of the First Age**

**_The Last Battle of the War of Wrath_ **

**\--**

Maedhros fought in a haze. He had no thoughts to spare beyond directing his soldiers and crushing dark things; a grotesque head would pop up in his peripherals and he would act decisively to destroy it.

He had lost track of his brother and their wards hours ago and could only hope that they fought yet. The field was overrun with orcs and wyrms and all manner of horrid things, but the worst was yet to come. He felt her prickling in the back of his consciousness, like a great spider lurking on a web and waiting to strike.

He was fighting back-to-back with Prince Inglor when he felt it. A great ripple of power, of darkness and flame and death spreading out across the field in a shockwave that only he seemed to feel. He whipped around, startling Inglor.

_Ancalacon is here._

“What is it?!” Inglor yelled, the noise of the battle deafening.

Maedhros pointed with his shield. “Watch the ridge! It’s coming!” He took a deep breath and summoned power to his voice in a pale imitation of his brother’s abilities.

“ _Look to the North,”_ he boomed out, attracting attention across the field. All was still for a brief second, and then shouting began as troops followed his direction and saw a great black shape.

Strains of ward-song came to his ears on the wind, letting him know that Maglor was still conscious and fighting. He adjusted his grip on his sword and moved to Inglor, facing the north and ready to re-evaluate their strategy on the fly. The Maia Dailir was with them, a few feet beyond; he would be able to run messages to all corners swifter than anyone.

“What _is_ that?” Inglor shouted, horrified by what they could see coming over the peaks. Her immense mass glistened blue-black, points of light reflecting off of her scales like stars in the sky. If she was not a harbinger of death, Maedhros thought, she might even be beautiful.

“Ancalacon! Fire-drake!” he yelled back. Nobody would ask how he knew.

And then her maw opened and proved his words true; blue-white flame shot out from between her glistening fangs and she began streaming death upon the field.

\--

The _Vingilot_ had arrived, Eärendil presumably at the helm, and hours of disgusting and exhausting battle had culminated in a fierce and final victory. Ancalacon had been speared through the brain with a lance that shone so brightly it could not be looked at directly – and then her body started its long fall.

Inglor was still with him, and the prince cursed as they watched, almost unable to wrap their minds around the scale of what was occurring. “Thank Eru he was smart enough to direct that monster over the peaks!”

Her body hit the highest peak and kept going, shearing off large sections of cliff, and the earth shook dreadfully for miles. Their armies wavered and Maedhros hit the ground, bracing himself with the shield strapped on to his stump. Inglor reached out to try and aid him but was thrown to the dirt himself a second later.

However, it would have done no good even if he had reached Maedhros, for the tall elf had not lost balance because of mere tremors in the earth. He had lost the strength in his legs because it felt like a great _crack_ had gone through him, resounding in his mind and hollowing out his heart. His head was suddenly empty save darkness at the edges. There was nothing. There had been so much, and now there was _nothing_.

He came back a little as Inglor gripped his shoulders and shook him fiercely.

“ _Nelyafinwë!”_ the prince was yelling.

Maedhros blinked slowly. Why would Inglor call him that? “He….died….a long time ago,” he slurred. Time seemed to be proceeding like glue. His heart felt empty. Did he have one anymore? He wasn’t sure. He seemed to remember feeling like this some seventy years earlier, when he knew without being told that the wyrm Gostir had been killed. But this was worse. Was it compounding? Or was it because Ancalacon was just…so much larger?

Inglor was shaking him again, but Maedhros couldn’t respond. Inglor finally gave up and pulled him flush against his side, throwing Maedhros’ good arm over his shoulders and lifting.

Maedhros supposed he should try to help, but the feeling of emptiness and nothingness had mutated. Everything was grey and dark now, and it felt like something was eating him from the inside. Perhaps the Void had opened in his chest and was trying to suck down the last bits of his soul. Evranîn wouldn’t be much pleased, he thought.

He let his eyes close and his head fall hard against Inglor’s shoulder-plate.

How was he supposed to keep living when there was so little of himself left to do it with?

* * *

**_An hour earlier, across the Sea_ **

\--

Eönwë watched desperately from across the field as Nornorë fell to one of Melkor’s Maiar, some horrible twisted white thing with teeth as red as blood. His eyes tracked his brother’s form as it disintegrated like so much dust in the wind, feathers flying; and then he had to turn away to meet the _Vingilot_ for another thrust.

Many miles across land and sea Ingwë fell also, clutching his chest and making no noise as he slid bonelessly onto the floor.

Olwë felt his friend’s grief in his heart and turned from the bookshelf across the room in worry. He saw Ingwë on the floor and frowned, making his way between the tables and reaching over to prod Rúmil out of his nap as he went. Rúmil rubbed at his eyes and joined him in helping their golden friend back up onto the chaise. Ingwë was responsive but ignoring them; perhaps he was trying to communicate with Eönwë.

Rúmil sat down on the floor next to them and put his head down on the seat, too exhausted from years of worry and pain to do aught else at the moment. Olwë pressed his eyes shut, needing to block everything out briefly, and then dragged a chair over and sank into it, arranging his hand over Ingwë’s across the arms.

The three of them had lived together more often than not of late as the fighting in Endórë ramped up and more Maiar found themselves unhoused and incomplete. Many faded entirely as Nornorë had just done, as rehousing them was a daunting prospect and could only be managed in particular circumstances. Thus, the last oath-takers free to walk around Valinor spent their time together waiting for it all to end. Rúmil had made his excuses; he was uninterested in fainting in front of his students or fellow scholars. Olwë spent so much time traveling that it was completely normal for him to be away from Alqualondë for decades – Eärwen had been co-ruling with him for centuries anyhow. Ingwë had called recess for the court, which his people were happy to oblige.

Indis had come to visit several times, and Quennar often brought new books for his husband, but neither could bear watching such scenes. Elulindo and Ingilyë often sat with them, happy to remind their parents that they had living children yet, and Olwé’s Maia-child Núri often came and brought along Aulë’s child Sáya.

Ingilyë looked up from her book as her father fell and sighed, putting it aside to pick up a blanket and carry it over. She walked around the back of the chaise and dropped it over him, stroking his braids back from his closed eyes. “I’ll fetch you some strong tea, shall I?”

She had just turned away when Ingwë groaned. “Make it three. Something awful is happening – I just lost two in the space of half an hour, and the most recent was Nornorë. There must be some awful thing on the battlefield cutting them down right and left,” he gasped, running a hand over his face and pulling the blanket up.

Olwë took his hand back as soon as it came down, understanding that it might be his own turn soon. “Wasn’t Nornorë one of your most powerful?” he said quietly.

Ingwë nodded tiredly. “My only consolation is that Eönwë has not yet fallen.”

His daughter rubbed his shoulder in support and left to look for tea. “I’ll find Elulindo while I’m out,” she threw over her shoulder. Olwë watched her go and then put his head down on the arms of the chair next to Ingwë’s.

“One of mine is still there,” Rúmil said softly. “Stronger than Nornorë, as far as I know.” He rested his forehead on Ingwë’s thigh, still reeling mentally from losing a Maia the day before. He generally disliked touch but desperately needed the connection right now, and Ingwë had gotten used to him lately. He felt Ingwë’s hand come down and card gently through his unbound hair. “How are you still conscious? You’ve lost nearly a dozen in the last few weeks.”

Ingwë gave a long sigh. “Ten, yes, out of nearly a hundred. It hurts, but ‘tis like small pieces chipping off. It’s – well. Manwë can be worse,” he said, his words freer for the lack of their children in the room. “A little of them comes back to me, each time. It might be destruction, but it almost feels like healing.”

Olwë brought his head up and pressed a gentle kiss to Ingwë’s forehead in comfort. “It does, doesn’t it,” he whispered, breath ghosting gently over closed lashes. “Like peace.”

* * *

**Year 45 of the First Age**

**_Fifteen years before the Dagor Aglareb_ **

\----

A great and horrible rumbling sounded through the dim valley, shaking what little plant-life was left. There were no animals anymore to be frightened by the noise; she had eaten anything that had not fled years ago.

All that remained now was her hunger, and her weakness; a great bristled, black carcass from which strength had drained and life was fading. Her great dark eyes cracked open one more time, surveying the valley that she had made her barrow, and as her vision blurred between eight separate eyes, she thought that it was kind of Eru to send her a vision of her mother in her final moments.

“Oh, Virilomë,” Morwë whispered, a spirit on the wind.

The monstrous spider felt a tiny hand rub like the gentlest of breezes across one of her palps.

_I did it for you._

The place where Morwë’s eyes should have been darkened further. “You destroyed Valinor for me? You betrayed your sire for me? You _starved_ , for me?” Then they came back, black glints on the smoke where her face had just been.

Ungoliant let her last hour’s breath rattle out.

 _He hurt you. I hurt him,_ she projected, not finding any connection to Morwë’s mind. Perhaps she was seeing things, but it would do no harm. _The eating was for me._

“And now there is nothing left to eat, ah?” Morwë said, stroking a palp again in a way she would have been horrified to do when the child was first Created.

Ungoliant did not spare energy to answer, for it was terribly obvious. As solid sources of food dwindled, unable to sustain their populations in the face of her ravenous feeding, she had slowly lost the energy to move, and now lay at the center of a wasteland. Even her children had skittered off, following the retreat of other animals.

 _Do you regret it?_ she asked instead.

Morwë’s form jerked and wavered; Ungoliant could not perceive if the emotion was sorrow or anger. Perhaps it was merely the inconstancy of a destroyed, Houseless fëa.

“Does it matter, child?” her mother whispered. “‘Twas not I who did this, and regret serves not the living. You made your choices, and Melkor made his. I will find no peace in guilt. What should I have done, daughter – killed myself earlier? Taken you with me?”

Ungoliant closed her eight eyes. Her gut rumbled, the ache like Melkor’s horrible love. She had no answer. Morality was only something she knew of peripherally, through Morwë’s mind, and she hardly cared. But she would have liked to know if her mother regretted Creating her.

If Morwë was really here, that might be answer enough. But she no longer had the strength to open her eyes and look again.

* * *

**Year 1696 of the Second Age**

**_Across the Sea, Sauron has invaded Eriador_ **

\--

Tyelkormo’s head snapped to the east, his eyes wide and his body still. Oromë had only a second to wonder at it before his blood ran cold - one of their children had just been killed.

The happening pieced itself together in his head, memories forming that were not his. Morinehtar and Rómestámo had come to Nahar’s aid against Sauron in the grasslands, defending the peoples who lived around Ost-in-Edhil. He had agreed to send them on Manwë’s recommendation, and indeed had hoped that they would find Nahar who had long been living in peace in Eriador. His Maiar were generally rather powerful; it was shocking to think that Nahar, as strong and swift as a shooting star, might fall. Yet Sauron had found them; and Morinehtar reported that he had aimed for Nahar as one with a grudge. He had held some sort of weapon against which Nahar had been unable to defend.

Oromë let the connection fade. He could do nothing without going to Endórë himself, and Manwë would not permit it.

He sighed lowly and leaned around the fire to tug Tyelkormo into his arms. The elf took a deep breath and then melted into the embrace, his mind burning with grief.

Oromë leaned back against the trunk of the aged tree which they had set up camp under and pulled his lover close, pressing their chests together and tucking Celegorm’s head under his chin. He twined his fingers into silver hair and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

The little soul in Tyelkormo’s chest was suddenly that much more important to him; it could never be a replacement for his loyal son, but it would be a boon to have a new child to focus on when so many of their children were out of reach.

He glanced up at their daughter, who paced about on a branch high above with her claws clicking, sending her a nod. She returned it and took off, swooping low until she found a current that rocketed her into the air.

Tyelkormo kissed him, then, and Oromë felt plainly the sorrow he was trying to shield. He returned it, kissing along his jaw and up through the tear-tracks, laying a kiss on each closed eye and then his forehead. As he did so, he gave his power, and the unborn Maia calmed. It would not be strong, he saw; it succumbed to the effect too quickly. But he did not need his children to be strong. Not if they could be quick, or crafty, or skilled in husbandry. Not if they made the elf he treasured happy.

Míriel’s Creations were for strength, protection, and service. Tyelkormo’s were for love.

* * *

**Year 1497 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Two weeks after the First Kinslaying_ **

\--

When Olwë woke up, he was greeted by the sorrowful blued metal mask that Nienna wore over their face with tear-tracks tarnished and black. His head ached. His eyes wanted to close on their own accord, but he forced them open. He wasn’t sure what had happened – why was he in her domain? He knew for certain that he was not Creating; his chest was bleak and empty. There was no reason for Nienna to suddenly bring him to her Halls.

“Why am I here?” he croaked. His throat felt….rusty. He was abruptly put in mind of the time Roka had accidentally hit him in the face; he’d been swallowing blood for hours.

Nienna drew away, their body amorphous, tearing apart and reforming on invisible winds. “Heskil took a blow meant for you. You were already hurt, and his loss felled you.”

Olwë frowned, headache spearing the area behind his eyes as some of the memories began returning. Everything was full of _sorrow_. He succumbed to pain and temptation and closed his lids.

He and Fëanáro had parted the day before, Fëanáro full of dark emotions and Olwë trying not to submit to the roiling grief he felt like cold fire under the new king’s skin. It hadn’t been amicable by any means, but Olwë hadn’t realized he needed to fear an attack. It was the horrors of living near Cuiviénen returned!

The first he’d known of it had been when blazing sorrow had cut through him like a knife; he’d dropped his tray on Elulindo’s foot and panicked. Someone had just witnessed the murder of a loved one. He knew the feeling intimately and had been so glad to never feel it again after stepping on the white sands of Valinor.

He’d run out of the library, calling his household to alert, and exited the palace to step on sands that were quickly growing red with blood in the distance. He was unprepared; Elulindo at least carried a dagger daily in grim reminder of the lands they had left. 

The harbor was seething with people; it seemed almost that the entire population of Tirion had descended upon the docks and warehouses. He saw Fëanáro’s form in the distance, his gleaming armor the same as yesterday, and anger filled him. He ran forward, disarming the first person he saw with a weapon, and dove into the fray. Elulindo cried out behind him, but he was beyond caring. He would not deal death, but he was adept enough to defend against a pile of barely-trained youngsters. He would make it to Fëanáro if it killed him.

Apparently, it had – or close to it. If Heskil had taken a blow so terrible it had destroyed him, then the weapon would certainly have killed Olwë. Unless it was a Maia, and Finwë’s children had convinced their branch of the tree to aid their cause…?

He dragged an arm up over his face, unsure what he was supposed to be feeling. It was so easy to fall into sorrow when that was all you ever felt from anyone else! Was the sadness he felt his? Nienna’s? His people’s? His Creation had been killed; he should probably be bothered. Many of his people had been slain on the docks and beaches; he was definitely miffed. But it was too difficult to delve through the massive sadness that was clogging everything he felt – truly, he just felt like ignoring it. Why bother to try to discern if any of it was really his?

He heard someone enter the room and moved his arm off his face in order to rub at his brow and sneak a glance. Another Creation stood before him – one with a particularly annoyed expression on his face.

“That’s what happens when you pick up a sword and go charging into a fight that you aren’t prepared for, Bearer.”

Olwë groaned. “Hello, Fui.” At least there was no bothersome grief from that quarter. “Were you there?”

Fui crossed his arms over his chest and sat down by the bedside. “I felt you blow up from _Ezellohar_ , Bearer; I was there as fast as I could be. I met Heskil on the way, and then he found you first, just in time. Someone aimed at your head with a war-hammer. I think it was made by one of the fringe crafters that Lord Melkor seduced; it was too brawny for either first-Finwë.”

“That’s hardly comforting,” said Olwë, closing his eyes again. Nienna placed cold fingers upon his temples, drifting across the worst of the aching. The pain grew, and Olwë flinched as something within him fluttered. “My lady, please – you’re only making it worse.”

They drew away as if burnt, and the terrible fluttering subsided. He blinked groggily as he tried to understand what the feeling had been, but it slipped away from him and did not return.

Nienna floated to a standing position. “You are not well. You may stay as long as you need or have Fui take you elsewhere.” They disappeared.

Olwë breathed deeply through the pain, trying to work out how to dampen or numb it. It was surely connected to his empathic ability, since Nienna’s touch had worsened it.

“Is anyone looking for me?” he asked. “Do they know where I am? How long has it been?” He suspected it had been more than the day it felt like. The rust in his throat made him sure.

“They’re still counting the lists of the dead, but of course, yes,” Fui said. “Núri told them you were here weeks ago. Elulindo presided over, um, the cleanup,” he stuttered. “The Ñoldorin host has gone north, with the three brothers; Eärwen was with her husband until the battle and then took charge after Elulindo could not take any more.”

“That wasn’t a battle, Fui,” he corrected grimly. Weeks! Eru. “That was a massacre. They know not what they have done.”

“They know now,” Fui whispered. “Lord Námo has pronounced their Doom.”

Olwë turned his head in shock, ignoring the pain that spiked. “What? What does that mean?”

“They’ve spilled blood and rejected the Valar, Bearer - they have been cursed in both life and death.”

His eyes widened, and then closed quickly as another spike of pain went through his temples. He massaged them and tried to understand. “That….that punishment outweighs their crime, Fui, do you not see that?”

Fui shook his head. “They killed, so they will be killed. Is that not fair?”

Olwë rubbed his brow. This was the issue with children raised in Valinor. “Fui….child, _I_ have killed. Do you therefore think that I should lose all hope for happiness and redemption, and should have seen their loss from the day I did the deed?”

Fui looked confused. “You killed something?”

“I killed some _one._ Not here, not in uncountable years; but in Cuiviénen. Do I thus deserve death?”

The Maia ignored the revelation, as he could not rationalize or reconcile it with what he knew of his parent. “These people killed in cold blood, Bearer.”

Olwë sighed. “No, trust me when I say that I felt grief from all that night. Those doing the killing knew the horror of ending lives and had to meet the fact that it was done by their own hands. We do not live apart from our brethren; friends killed each other while I watched. I do not believe that any of us who made the Journey would have participated in that, even if they had followed their King, Fui – the murderers that night were freshly made, and surely regret it deeply. Instead of granting them the chance to change, to redeem themselves, and to apologize and make reparations to my people who will surely be reborn…it seems that the Valar would prefer to drive them away with words of hate, thus ensuring the cycle continues.”

Fui stared at him. “Is that what being a king is, Bearer? Telling yourself that? Not feeling anything of what drives your people to mourn?” he asked.

Olwë wasn’t sure it was. Ingwë would surely tell him that emotion had its place in kingship, but all he could see was the futures that would spin out from these events. How intentional, how premeditated were the events that had occurred? How easy would it be to fix the lives that had been ruined in the coming years, and how much would a further split between peoples destroy their cultures?

He did not think Prince Fëanáro had truly planned for it to turn out like this. Would his Telerin people prefer revenge or banishment over reparations and repentance? He had lost touch with so much in recent years, corroded by his oath. He felt that he saw the situation clearly, but if even Fui was arguing with him – perhaps it was no longer the same view that others of the Eldar would take.

But how could justice and understanding ever be wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND WORDS. ya’ll, this is really big for me. I’m not a natural writer (though it’s been really fun to explore the ways I can capture situations in fic that I never could in art!) so once I passed ~60k and realized I still had steam, I set a goal for myself to try hitting 100k. and I did it!! big ol’ back pat.  
> I only have one more chapter after this waiting written in the eaves, but I won’t mark it as finished as I might be writing more. this winter ended up being prime writing time because I was incredibly stressed from grad school projects and this fic became my escape; once classes actually started again in late january i saw an immediate drop-off in my writing productivity (surprise). It’s always possible that I’ll write more soon, but I don’t want to leave anyone hanging! i never planned this fic to have an ending, so I’m not worried about that, but it would be nice for the last chapter to be sweet….or at least bittersweet….and the next chapter is definitely not, lol. 
> 
> I do pull a great deal of inspiration from your comments, so if people come back to it and want to discuss anything, that activity has a much greater chance of granting me Ideas, haha. (many thanks to both starlightwalking and nowendil for their various inspirational comments in the past several months!)
> 
> As a final note, I’ll drop back in the masterpost link below. This has all of my art for the story (as well as a linked guide to the maiar) and all chapters listed with relevant characters and the biggest cws. < https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/638343487123783680/ >
> 
> Thank you for reading, and as always, I welcome (nay, plead for) all comments as well as art and inspired-by fic as long as they are credited and tell me about the piece at time of posting. (I want to see!)
> 
> Next chapter will be up in a few days. :)


	33. king and king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to what his people believe, Ingwë has tried to renegotiate his oath with Manwë many times, running through a much-used script for results that rarely change.   
> A very young Glorfindel finds them in the middle of silent argument and has eyes only for their beauty.  
> During the Great Journey, Eönwë is ready to give up everything to keep his father safe – and Indis comes to a horrific realization. 
> 
> Featured characters: Ingwë, Manwë, Indis  
> Secondary characters: Glorfindel, Draugluin, Eönwë, Elenwë, Evranîn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- cw: metaphysical rape (first scene); trans character pre-transition (second scene); depression (fourth scene)  
> \- ingwë is NOT a doormat!!! he just takes a long time to make decisions and change things (incidentally, he got along with treebeard extremely well at cuiviénen). I hope this chapter helps explain that, depressing as it is
> 
> Name guide:  
> Roka - Rog  
> Avanië – Evranîn  
> Laurëfindelë – Glorfindel

**Year 1225 of the Years of the Trees**

**_Twenty-five Valarin years before Fëanor invents the Tengwar_ **

\--

“King.”

Ingwë jumped a little and turned away from the bassinet, lowering the toy in his hands. “My lord; you surprised me.”

Manwë drifted towards him and offered his hands. “It is time.”

Ingwë’s eyes widened and he made as if to back up but was stopped by the hard edge of the cradle behind him. “But – it’s been only a few years since the last, my lord…”

Manwë covered the last few feet of space between them and cocked his head, staring down at his elf. “The time matters not.”

Ingwë frowned, unsure. “It rather does to me.”

The Vala knelt down in front of him. “Are you unable to Create?”

“I- no, I merely… please, my lord; Ingilyë was born so recently. If you must - could you not, ah, choose someone else for a while?” Ingwe asked weakly. He genuinely had not expected Manwë to call so soon after the birth of his Elven daughter; neither parent had fully recovered yet, and both had hoped to be with the babe for several more years before they parted.

Manwë stilled in shock. “I chose _you_.” His feathers slowly rose along the back of his neck. “You would spurn that bond?”

“No, only put it aside for a while, my lord. Please - is there no way?”

Manwë leaned in, tracing familiar paths down Ingwë’s ears and neck, over his chest and downwards. “It is impossible. I am part of you. You agreed to take me in, and I you; our children require no less. I could no more prevail upon another to do your part than I could ask for my wife to do the same. It is _impossible_.”

“Lord Oromë manages without Míriel,” Ingwë whispered.

Manwë pulled him in and kissed him, letting his power fill Ingwë’s mouth and flow down his throat. The elf did not resist, and he moved away after a time. “Oromë is prophesized to one day find another. I am not.”

Ingwë’s eyes widened. This was ill news. “What? How? Who would- who _could_ -”

Manwë kissed him again, sending power to cut him off, and then pulled away a little, breath ghosting over his lips. “You think it a sacrifice.” He watched Ingwë close his eyes and his brow crease. “You did not always consider it thus.”

“I did not think we would be here forever!” Ingwë said, pained, the words finally escaping him. “I did not even know what forever _was_. And - my people do not conceive of relationships as impossible to leave, my lord! We had no understanding of what this really meant. Surely you recognize that.” He tilted his head away and down as if he wanted to withdraw. “Surely you can acknowledge that - that - at some level, we were…deceived by you,” he whispered unhappily, already knowing the words would not be received well.

An unpleasant ripple went through Manwë’s feathers as if a chill had set into the air. “Deceived?” he said dangerously.

Ingwë gulped, watching the shift in the Vala’s demeanor.

Suddenly he lost all sense of the room around him. It was like he was floating in a dark abyss with shafts of light that cut through the mirk to briefly blind him. Transparent crystals of various colors were scattered around, suspended in the air just as he was, spinning and whirling without a pattern.

Manwë appeared to him now formless, shapeless, and full of power – a subtle difference in the air the surrounded him and threatened to subsume him entirely. This was the form the Vala felt truest in, and one he rarely took around the Eldar. Ingwë knew why; it was so easy to lose oneself in such a being. Manwë was a world unto himself – all the Valar were. But they knew how badly it affected other beings; Ingwë had only survived their first encounter by the skin of his teeth, and Manwë had never taken the form around him in such circumstances again.

He had known that making such a request of the being – making such a statement to him – might not bode well for him. But he had to try, for them all if not merely for himself.

He attempted to pull into his body, his limbs curling inward to protect his center from the sheer _other_ that surrounded him. But Manwë flowed in, around, throughout; and Ingwë was immobilized. He gasped – or tried to – and threw his head back in a silent scream. Manwë took him over, spreading him out and finding his core; and for a long while he was nothing.

* * *

**Years of the Trees 1358**

**_Eight Valian years since Daeron devised the Cirth across the Sea_ **

\--

Laurëfindelë stopped at the door, overtaken with awe at the sight of her grandfather and Lord Manwë. The Vala was arched over Ingwë, one bookend to another, and radiating gentle light that Ingwe’s form seemed to suck in. Her grandfather’s face was tipped up and she couldn’t see his expression, but she could only imagine that so close to a Vala his expression could only either be fear or ecstasy.

It was amazing, she thought, that her strong, elegant grandfather had such a bond with the King of the Valar. It felt right for the two of them to be together like this, king and king. She wanted them – wanted to _be_ them – Well. She could only hope her own future held something half so perfect.

Laurëfindelë had come to ask her grandfather to listen to her newest essay, but upon realizing where her thought had taken her, she blushed and stepped backwards, leaving the two to themselves.  
  


* * *

**Years of the Trees 1126**

**_One Valian year since the first of the host of Quendi have entered Beleriand on the Great Journey_ **

\--

“Watch out!” Indis cried desperately, and Elenwë screamed as blood sprayed.

Ingwë whirled around, hair flying, and found Eönwë just behind him, bracing against an attacker.

“Run!” his son gritted out.

Ingwë gaped in shock, torn between trying to help and processing the close call. Some of his hair had been caught in the swiping claws and hadn’t even hit the grass yet. He watched it in a daze before his mind caught up with reality. He backed up just as Indis reached him and yanked; he stumbled behind her solid form and into tiny Elenwë. She reached up and shook him.

“Are you alright!” she barked out. It wasn’t really a question. He nodded, running a hand over his face, and she pulled him down into the long grass with her, a pair of wicked knives in her hands. She was primarily a scout, small and fast, but was far more capable than he of defending them if it came down to it.

Indis stood tall in front of them, wicked spear clenched in her strong hands and eyes on Eönwë fighting the shaggy bluish-black wolf. She picked out a moving figure in her peripheral vision and growled. “ _Avanië_!” she cried across the field. “Stay where you are, you fool! We’ll be _fine_! Stay with Roka! _”_

A moment passed, and then - “Roka’s _down_ , you absolute tit! She tried something on that thing and it backfired!” Evranîn screamed back. But she stopped heading for them and instead made for the tree line.

Indis whipped her attention back to the fight in front of her as the wolf broke through Eönwë’s guard and sent him to the ground. It leapt over him and went straight for Indis, jaws clashing around her spear. Her muscles strained and she narrowed her eyes to avoid the slobber coming off the slavering jaws. She trusted in Mahtan’s work, and this thing – this beast – it felt _so familiar_ , and she couldn’t understand why.

She wouldn’t be able to hold it for long, but Eönwë was rising in the background, and Ingwë’s first Maia had so far proven to be the strongest of them all.

She twisted her spear and locked it firmly in the jaws, widening her stance so that she could not be shaken off, and looked the wolf directly in the eyes as Eönwë came from behind and aimed for its heart, power suffusing him.

But the wolf saw something in her eyes, some reflection of its approaching doom, and sprang off, receiving only a glancing blow. Eönwë and Indis readied themselves and jumped after it, only to realize that it was truly running away. They stood there in shock, breathing hard, as blood dripped down Eönwë’s chest. He looked at her, dumbfounded. “What was that?!”

Indis shook her head, at a complete loss. “I – it felt familiar. But I don’t know why. I don’t know why it would run like that.” She raised her hands, shifting her drool-covered spear to the crook of her arm. They didn’t look any different beyond the blood, but something about her felt unsettled and new.

A gasp came from behind them. “Eönwë!” Ingwë pushed himself up out of Elenwë’s grasp and made for his son. Eönwë submitted to the grasping hands, sinking to the grass himself now that the danger was gone, and Ingwë pushed down on the bloody slashes with all the grace a frantic parent could summon. “ _Why would you do that!”_

Indis turned away in the direction of the tree-line to where she had last seen their healer and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Avanië! All clear! We might need you now!”

Behind her, Eönwë gasped in pain as his adrenaline faded. “You can’t be hurt, Father, you _can’t_.”

Ingwë frowned, utterly confused. “Eönwë, what are you talking about? Please; nothing is worth sacrificing yourself for me.”

Eönwë bowed his head, leaning into the pressure of his father’s hands. “Sire said –“

“ _No_ ,” hissed Ingwë. “Do _not_ protect me just because he told you to. You are not my bodyguard - you are my _son_!”

“ _I wanted to!”_ Eönwë gasped back. “You are _everything_ to us. To me,” he choked. He fell forward, too dizzy to stay upright, and Ingwë caught his forehead against his neck. He let out a strangled sob and used his free hand to press his child close, burying his face in dirty hair.

Indis grimaced and welcomed Avanië as she ran into their circle, breathing hard. “Eönwë caught the claws. Please tell me you have bandages.”

“Yes, I got some off of Míriel the other day,” she said as she kneeled next to the fallen Maia and peeled him away from Ingwë. “No, no, keep your hand on the wound for another minute,” she told him. “We were all lucky today, nobody’s dead.”

Elenwë frowned. “Roka’s alright?”

Avanië nodded, pulling out her supplies and finally moving Ingwë’s bloody hand aside. “She wasn’t hurt by that Maia; it was her own nonsense that did it. She thought she had a way to do something to its soul – weaken it somehow, I think. There was a flash of power and she went flying! I stopped long enough to ensure she was just unconscious, and then I saw the thing running in your direction. I arrived too late to warn you, it seems.”

Elenwë sighed. “Yes, it came upon us out of nowhere shortly before we saw you.”

Indis broke in then, eyes wide. “Avanië – what, what do you mean that it was a Maia?”

The healer reached across Eönwë’s chest to find the other end of the bandage and very conspicuously did not answer.

Indis went down hard on her knees. “Oh, _gods_ ,” she said, strangled, as everything came together in her head. She recognized the beast because it was one of Morwë’s. Yet her friend would never have allowed her children to attack them, had she been alive, and these too-strong beasts full of darkness and hatred had been pursuing them for years now.

Indis broke down, tears springing forth bitterly as decades of worry and fear culminated in a new and terrible understanding. “She’s dead. She’s _dead._ ”

Evranîn continued to work, only her eyes acknowledging this truth. Ingwë stared at his lake-sister in horrible realization, emotionally battered from a mere twenty minutes of the day. He wondered if Enel already knew.

Elenwë scooted over to Indis and hugged her sideways, reaching for her hands. Indis dropped her head to her twin’s and cried directly into her headwrap, the soft fabric soaking it up.

Ingwë watched them vacantly, only distracted out of his daze by a shaky hand clasping his own. He looked down to find his child conscious again. “Oh, Eönwë,” he whispered, nearly to tears again. The hand tightened.

“I was born for you, Father. I - I don’t care what my sire tells me I am meant for. My fate is for _you_.”

Ingwë closed his eyes in horror as his eyes burned hot and overflowed. He could only shake his head and grip Eönwë’s hand tighter. What had he _done_?

* * *

**Year 2497 of the Second Age**

**_The eight hundredth anniversary of Imladris’ founding across the Sea_ **

**\--**

“I have been looking for you.”

Ingwë did not turn from the balcony. “Then you have not been trying very hard, my lord, for I am always within your grasp.”

Manwë raised a brow and joined him at the railing, stretching his shoulders and delighting in his form for the day. “Perhaps I am enjoying the hunt.”

Ingwë turned and looked at him coldly. “I am not a deer. Pray save the euphemisms for another day when I might be feeling more receptive.”

“You are unsettled?” the Vala asked, feeling out his mood. He found it difficult to understand how Ingwë saw the world, and only long years of practice saved him from dismissing it out of hand.

Ingwë’s nostrils flared a little, as if he was trying to contain great emotion. Then it passed, and he breathed out, looking down and smoothing his hands along the ornated railing. Manwë idly reached out with dark feathered fingers and tucked some of his stray hairs back into place; it did not seem that the king had taken proper care lately. Had he been visiting too much, or not enough? It was such a delicate balance, with this elf; as the years passed, Creation became harder for them to sustain and complete, but Ingwë could only take so much power from him at one time. Yet their Maiar were needed desperately; they flew further afield than any others to watch over the world.

“Yes?” he prompted when no response came.

Ingwë’s jaw worked, but his eyes looked dull. “You will not understand.”

“Nevertheless, I would have you tell me, king,” said Manwë. If it was something he could not handle, it was always possible to speak to Irmo about it.

Ingwë wetted his lips. He had tried to have this conversation many times over the years; perhaps it was a failure of his that he could not give it up.

“I know the importance of what we do, and I am not questioning our oath. Yet while my life is unending; I cannot fathom why this arrangement must be. I feel that my body is not my own; that my soul is a mere receptacle to be used. What meaning can I have in this life? My purpose is clear, yes; my reason to live…less so.” he finished firmly. _Do you remember the first time we had this conversation? How you ended it? How wrong that was?_ he thought, uncaring if the Vala felt it. _How sick I am of this?_

Manwë considered the statement. “You say you do not question the oath, and yet that is what have just done. But that is not what you want of me.” He paused, thinking. “Eönwë has previously requested that I ask less of you, but I already consider myself careful about your well-being. Am I not?”

Ingwë shifted his weight. “My physical well-being and the state of my mind and soul are completely different things, my lord. Even if you cannot see my mind, I do not think you can deny that my soul has become less.”

“No. I was not able to foresee that, nor swear against it if I had,” Manwe replied. “I need you nonetheless, and we have not managed to avert or heal it. Time away would not aid you.”

Ingwë closed his eyes. “I do not want to live like this, my lord. I would not forswear my vow, but every day takes me further from myself. Some days I wake up and all I feel is the child; as if I myself am nothing and do not matter.”

Manwë reached out with a gentle finger and tilted Ingwë’s head up. With one hand cradling his face, he let the other play over the folds of Ingwë’s clothes and run down his body to settle on his waist, bringing him close. “I would not be where I am today without you, gold-king. I would not have chosen another, and had I done so the world would be the worse for it. With a different parent, my children would have been changed utterly.”

Ingwë pulled his head away and looked away in the direction of the Sea, though he could not see it past the peaks. “What does that say about me, then, that despite my aid my friends are left desolate in lands far away?” he said bitterly. “That my children cannot solve the ills of the world; that my siblings are beyond my reach? That my functional spouse is a Vala who cannot understand the workings of my mind, and has no wish to? _Why should I go on?_ ”

Manwë’s eyes narrowed at hearing the plea spat out like a curse. He pulled his hand away from Ingwë’s waist and cupped his face with both hands instead. “Ingwë!” he said, leaning down, their noses mere inches apart. The elf had no choice but to look at him.

“Arda is _marred_. The reasons for the world’s ills are manifold, and few indeed can be blamed upon you; no, in fact you have aided only in its preservation. You have a purpose sworn to Eru, more than most ever receive; you told me once that you took comfort in that. You lead your people; you help your children; you fulfill a happy land with every new year. Your oath to me is part of that. Would you truly have it – have _me_ – gone from your life?” he thundered.

Ingwë flinched. Manwë’s hands gripped his head hard enough that he couldn’t pull away, but he found the internal strength to bring his own up to gently peel them off. “It has been so long since I knew anything else, my lord.”

Manwë stared at him, unsure what that meant, and Ingwë sighed in frustration.

“I no longer know what freedom _is_ , to want it, except perhaps that it would mean I am not bound to you! I - I love my children; I love my people; my life is a good one. I wish only that my soul would be whole again, my lord,” he said despairingly. “and I see no path to that; and you and my vow are the reason it is broken and pale, so I pull away. I need to do _something_ \- or become nothing.” His voice broke.

Manwë could not understand, and he disliked looking at Ingwë’s face twisted in such vulnerability. He pressed him to his chest as they stood there and wrapped his arms around the king. Ingwë had been tense, but eventually relaxed into his hold, giving up to long familiarity. Manwë ignored the wet warmth of tears to raise some of his arm feathers and provide a buffer from the cold breeze.

He could not speak of sorrow or regret, for he did not feel it.

But he and his brethren had discussed for a long time the slow fading of their oath-takers and were no closer now to an answer than they had been when Oromë had first called them together to ask about Míriel. Alaton had escaped the effects by virtue of Vána’s forfeiture; Nówë and Lenwë were seemingly unafflicted, and he had counted Finwë amongst their number before his death.

Eöl had succumbed to a kind of faded madness shortly after Míriel and yet had somehow remained alive for years before hastening her own execution. On both sides of the sea Enel, Culúnalta, and Olwë had suffered greatly. His wife had pulled back from Enel for a time recently, he knew, and no miraculous recovery had occurred. Greater time, then, would not be the cure that Ingwë sought.

That Irmo’s own elf sometimes lost herself was as good an indication as any that the condition could not be repaired. Even Enelyë and Roka, strongest of all the oath-takers, had been stressed from prolonged exposure to the Valar – Enelyë had almost lost a child because of it, and Roka had fought Tulkas at every turn before she was killed.

It seemed to simply be something of the nature of their existences; no Elven soul could handle Valarin power so fully and in the ways that were required for Creation. Yet Eru had granted them the ability, and to the Valar permission. It was both lawful and necessary, and Manwë had decided long ago that it would continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, gustav klimt’s The Kiss was absolutely inspo for Glorfindel’s scene thx


End file.
